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Wotb$  of  Cugene  ^>ue 


jfHpstertes 
of  $art6 


Illustrated  toiify  lEtdjmgs  ug  iftercier, 
$otteau,  and  gfortan  ilarcel  ^ 


IN  THREE  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  II. 


fJrinteU  for 

tftancte  a.  jStccolljs  a  Co* 

Boston 


This  Edition  is  Limited  to  One  Thousand  Copit 
of  which  this  is  No.  2G3 


A  I  es- 

CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    The  Temple   11 

PI.    The  Arrest   52 

III.  Jacques  Ferrand   109 

IV.  The  Office   116 

V.    The  Clients   137 

VI.  The  Anonymous  Letter    .       .             .       .  167 

VII.    ^Reflections   197 

VIII.  The  Bachelors'  Breakfast      ....  211 

IX.    St.  Lazare   225 

X.    Mont  Saint -Jean   240 

XI.  La  Louve  and  La  Goualeuse  ....  255 

XII.    The  Protectress   285 

XLTL    The  Forced  Friendship   300 

XIV.  Cecily  .       .       .             .       .       .       .  .313 


ft 


980852 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PART  I. 

PAGE 

'Took  my  head  between  his  hands'"  Frontispiece 

A  GOUALETJSE  IN  THE  PRISON  279 

PART  ET 

Was  about  to  embrace  his  father  "  .       .       .  199 


Mysteries  of  Paris,  Vol.  II. 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  TEMPLE. 

To  the  deep  snow  which  had  fallen  during  the  past 
night  had  succeeded  a  very  sharp  wind,  so  that  the 
ordinarily  muddy  pavement  was  hard  and  dry,  as 
Rigolette  and  Rodolph  wended  onwards  to  the  im- 
mense and  singular  bazar  called  the  Temple,  the  young 
girl  leaning  unceremoniously  on  the  arm  of  her  cavalier, 
who,  on  his  part,  appeared  as  much  at  his  ease  as  though 
they  had  been  old  familiar  friends. 

"  What  a  funny  old  woman  Madame  Pipelet  is ! " 
observed  the  grisette  to  her  companion ;  "  and  what 
very  odd  things  she  says  !  " 

"  Well,  I  thought  her  remarks  very  striking,  as  well 
as  appropriate." 

"  Which  of  them,  neighbour  ?  " 

"  Why,  when  she  said  «  Young  people  would  be  young 
people,'  and  «  Vive  V amour  ! '  " 
«  Well?" 

"  Well !  I  only  mean  to  say  those  are  precisely  my 
sentiments." 

"  Your  sentiments  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to  pass  my 
youth  with  you,  taking  '  Vive  V amour  ! '  for  my  motto. 
11 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


"  I  dare  say,  for  certainly  you  are  not  hard  to  please." 

"  Why,  where  would  be  the  harm,  —  are  we  not  near 
neighbours  ?  Of  course  we  are,  or  else  I  should  not  be 
seen  walking  out  with  you  in  this  manner  in  broad  day." 

"  Then  you  allow  me  to  hope  —  " 

"Hope  what?" 

"  That  you  will  learn  to  love  me." 

"  Oh,  bless  you,  I  do  love  you  already ! " 

«  Really?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  do.    Why,  how  can  I  help  it  ?  You 

are  good  and  gay ;  though  poor  yourself,  you  have  done 
all  in  your  power  by  interesting  rich  people  in  the  fate 
of  the  Morels ;  your  appearance  pleases  me ;  and  you 
have  altogether  a  nice  look,  and  a  sort  of  air  such  as 
one  is  glad  to  find  in  a  person  we  expect  to  go  about 
with  a  great  deal.  So  there,  I  think,  are  abundant 
reasons  for  my  loving  you." 

Then,  suddenly  breaking  into  loud  fits  of  laughter, 
Rigolette  abruptly  exclaimed,  "  Look  there,  only  look  at 
that  fat  woman  with  the  furred  shoes  !  What  does  she 
remind  you  of  ?  I'll  tell  you,  —  of  a  great  sack  being 
drawn  along  by  two  cats  without  tails  ! "  and  again  she 
laughed  merrily. 

"I  would  rather  look  at  you,  my  pretty  neighbour, 
than  at  all  the  fat  old  women  or  tailless  cats  in  Europe. 
I  am  so  delighted  to  find  you  already  love  me." 

"  I  only  tell  you  the  truth ;  if  I  disliked  you,  I  should 
speak  just  as  plainly.  I  cannot  reproach  myself  with 
ever  having  deceived  or  flattered  any  one ;  but,  if  a 
person  pleases  me,  I  tell  them  so  directly." 

Again  interrupting  the  thread  of  her  discourse,  the 
grisette  drew  up  suddenly  before  the  windows  of  a  shop, 
saying,  "  Oh,  do  pray  only  look  at  that  pretty  clock  and 
those  two  handsome  vases !  I  had  already  saved  up 
three  francs  and  a  half,  and  had  put  it  in  my  money- 
box, to  buy  such  a  set  as  that.  In  five  or  six  years  I 
might  have  been  able  to  buy  them." 

12 


THE  TEMPLE. 


"  Saved  up,  do  you  say  ?  Then,  I  suppose,  you  earn  —  " 
"  At  least  thirty  sous  a  day,  —  sometimes  forty ;  but  I 
never  reckon  upon  more  than  thirty,  which  is  the  more 
prudent;  and  I  regulate  all  my  expenses  accordingly," 
said  Rigolette,  with  an  air  as  important  as  though  she 
was  settling  the  financial  budget. 

"  But  with  thirty  sous  a  day,  how  do  you  manage  to 
live?" 

"  Oh,  bless  you  !  that  is  easily  reckoned.  Shall  I  tell 
you  how  I  manage,  neighbour  ?  I  fancy  you  are  rather 
extravagant  in  your  notions ;  so,  perhaps,  it  may  serve 
as  a  lesson  for  you." 

"  Yes,  pray  do." 

"  Well,  then,  thirty  sous  a  day  make  five  and  forty 
francs  a  month,  do  they  not  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  out  of  that  I  pay  twelve  francs  for  lodg- 
ing ;  that  leaves  me  twenty-three  francs  for  food,  etc." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  Twenty -three  francs  for  one  month's 
food!" 

"  Yes,  really,  all  that !  Certainly,  for  such  a  person 
as  myself,  it  does  seem  an  enormous  sum ;  but  then,  you 
see,  I  deny  myself  nothing." 

"  Oh,  you  little  glutton ! " 

"  Ah  !  but  then,  remember,  I  include  the  food  for  both 
my  birds  in  that  sum." 

"  Certainly  it  seems  less  exorbitant,  when  you  come  to 
reckon,  for  three  than  for  one ;  but  just  tell  me  how  you 
manage  day  by  day,  that  I  may  profit  by  your  good 
example." 

"  Well,  then,  be  attentive,  and  I  will  go  over  the 
different  things  I  spend  in  it.  First  of  all,  one  pound 
of  bread,  that  costs  four  sous ;  then  two  sous'  worth  of 
milk  make  six  ;  four  sous'  worth  of  vegetables  in  winter, 
or  fruit  and  salad  in  summer,  —  I  am  very  found  of  salad, 
because,  like  vegetables,  it  is  such  a  nice  clean  thing  to 
prepare,  and  does  not  soil  the  hands;  there  goes  ten 
13 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


sous  at  once ;  then  three  sous  for  butter,  or  oil  and  vine- 
gar, to  season  the  salad  with,  that  makes  thirteen  sous ; 
a  pail  of  nice  fresh  water,  —  oh,  I  must  have  that !  it  is 
my  principal  extravagance,  —  that  brings  it  to  fifteen  sous, 
don't  you  see  ?  Then  add  two  or  three  sous  a  week  for 
chickweed  and  seed  for  my  birds,  who  generally  have 
part  of  my  bread  and  milk ;  all  this  comes  to  exactly 
twenty-three  francs  a  month,  neither  more  nor  less." 

"  And  do  you  never  eat  meat  ?  " 

"  Meat,  indeed !  I  should  think  not.  Why,  it  costs 
from  ten  to  twelve  sous  a  pound !  A  likely  thing  for 
me  to  buy !  Besides,  there  is  all  the  nuisance  and  smell 
of  cooking ;  instead  of  which,  milk,  vegetables,  or  fruit, 
are  always  ready  when  you  wish  for  them.  I  tell  you 
what  is  a  favourite  dish  of  mine,  without  being  trouble- 
some to  prepare,  and  which  I  excel  in  making." 

"  Oh,  pray  let  me  know  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  get  some  beautiful  ripe,  rosy  apples,  and  put 
them  at  the  top  of  my  little  stove ;  when  they  are  quite 
tender,  I  bruise  them  with  a  little  milk,  and  just  a  taste 
of  sugar.  It  is  a  dish  for  an  emperor.  If  you  behave 
well,  I  will  let  you  taste  it  some  day." 

"  Prepared  by  your  hands,  it  can  scarcely  fail  being 
excellent ;  but  let  us  keep  to  our  reckoning.  Let  me 
see,  we  counted  twenty-three  francs  for  living,  etc.,  and 
twelve  francs  for  lodging ;  that  makes  thirty-five  francs 
a  month." 

"  Well,  then,  out  of  the  forty-five  or  fifty  francs  I  earn, 
there  remains  from  ten  to  fifteen  francs  a  month  for  my 
wood  and  oil  during  the  winter,  as  well  as  for  my  clothes 
and  washing ;  that  is  to  say,  for  soap  and  other  requisites ; 
because,  excepting  my  sheets,  I  wash  my  own  things ; 
that  is  another  of  my  extravagances,  —  a  good  laundress 
would  pretty  well  ruin  me  ;  while,  as  I  am  a  very  quick 
and  good  ironer,  the  expense  is  principally  that  of  my 
own  time.  During  the  five  winter  months  I  burn  a  load 
and  a  half  of  wood,  while  I  consume  about  four  or  five 
14 


THE  TEMPLE. 


sous'  worth  of  oil  for  my  lamp  daily ;  that  makes  it  cost 
me  about  eighty  francs  a  year  for  fire  and  lights." 

"  So  that  you  have,  in  fact,  scarcely  one  hundred 
francs  to  clothe  yourself,  and  find  you  in  pocket 
money." 

«  No  more ;  yet  out  of  that  sum  I  managed  to  save 
my  three  francs  and  a  half." 

"  But  your  gowns,  your  shoes,  —  this  smart  little 
cap?" 

"  As  for  caps,  I  never  wear  one  but  when  I  go  out,  so 
that  is  not  ruinous ;  and,  at  home,  I  go  bareheaded. 
As  for  my  gowns  and  boots,  have  I  not  got  the  Temple 
to  go  to  for  them  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  this  convenient,  handy  Temple  !  So  you 
buy  there  ?  " 

"All  sorts  of  pretty  and  excellent  dresses.  Why, 
only  imagine,  great  ladies  are  accustomed  to  give 
their  old,  cast-off  gowns,  etc.,  to  their  maids.  When  I 
say  old,  I  mean  that,  perhaps,  they  have  worn  them  for 
a  month  or  two,  just  to  ride  out  in  the  carriage.  Well, 
and  then  the  ladies'  maids  sell  them  to  the  persons  who 
have  shops  at  the  Temple  for  almost  nothing.  Just 
look  at  the  nice  dark  merino  dress  I  have  on ;  well,  I 
only  gave  fourteen  francs  for  it,  when,  I  make  no  doubt, 
it  cost  at  least  sixty,  and  had  scarcely  been  put  on.  I 
altered  it  to  fit  myself ;  and  I  flatter  myself  it  does  me 
credit." 

"  Indeed,  it  does,  and  very  great  credit,  too.  Yes,  I 
begin  to  see  now,  thanks  to  the  Temple,  you  really  may 
contrive  to  make  a  hundred  francs  a  year  suffice  for 
your  dress." 

"  To  be  sure ;  why,  I  can  buy  in  the  summer  sweet 
pretty  gowns  for  five  or  six  francs;  boots,  like  these  I 
have  on,  and  almost  new,  for  two  or  three  francs  a  pair  ; 
just  look  at  my  boots.  Now,  would  not  any  one  say 
they  had  been  made  for  me  ?  "  said  Rigolette,  suddenly 
stopping,  and  holding  up  one  of  her  pretty  little  feet, 
15 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


really  very  nicely  set  off  by  the  well-fitting  boot  she 
wore. 

"  It  is,  indeed,  a  charging  foot ;  but  you  must  have 
some  difficulty  in  getting  fitted.  However,  I  suppose, 
at  the  Temple,  they  keep  shoes  and  boots  of  all  sizes, 
from  a  woman's  to  a  child's." 

"  Ah,  neighbour,  I  begin  to  find  out  what  a  terrible 
flatterer  you  are.  However,  after  what  I  have  told  you, 
you  must  see  now  that  a  young  girl,  who  is  careful,  and 
has  only  herself  to  keep,  may  manage  to  live  respectably 
on  thirty  sous  a  day ;  to  be  sure,  the  four  hundred  and 
fifty  francs  I  brought  out  of  prison  with  me  helped  me 
on  famously,  for  when  people  saw  that  I  had  my  own 
furniture  in  my  apartments,  they  felt  more  confidence 
in  entrusting  me  with  work  to  take  home.  I  was 
some  time,  though,  before  I  met  with  employment. 
Fortunately  for  me,  I  had  kept  by  me  as  much  money 
as  enabled  me  to  live  three  months  without  earning 
anything." 

"  Shall  I  own  to  you  that,  under  so  gay  and  giddy  a 
manner,  I  scarcely  expected  to  hear  so  much  sound 
sense  as  that  uttered  by  your  pretty  mouth,  my  good 
neighbour  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  but  let  me  tell  you  that,  when  one  is  all  alone 
in  the  world,  and  has  no  wish  to  be  under  any  obliga- 
tion, it  is  quite  necessary,  as  the  proverb  says,  to  mind 
how  we  build  our  nest,  to  take  care  of  it  when  it  is 
built." 

"And  certainly  yours  is  as  charming  a  nest  as  the 
most  fastidious  bird  could  desire." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  for,  as  I  say,  I  never  refuse  myself 
anything.  Now,  I  consider  my  chamber  as  above  my 
means ;  in  fact,  too  handsome  for  one  like  me  ;  then  I 
have  two  birds ;  always,  at  least,  two  pots  of  flowers 
on  my  mantelpiece,  without  reckoning  those  on  the 
window-ledges  ;  and  yet,  as  I  told  you,  I  had  actually 
got  three  francs  and  a  half  in  my  money-box,  towards 
16 


THE  TEMPLE. 


the  ornaments  I  hoped  some  day  to  be  able  to  buy  for 
my  mantelpiece." 

"  And  what  became  of  this  store  ?  " 

"  Oh,  why,  lately,  when  I  saw  the  poor  Morels  so 
very,  very  wretched,  I  said  to  myself,  1  What  is  the  use 
of  hoarding  up  these  stupid  pieces  of  money,  and  letting 
them  lie  idle  in  a  money-box,  when  good  and  honest 
people  are  actually  starving  for  want  of  them  ? '  So  I 
took  out  the  three  francs,  and  lent  them  to  Morel. 
When  I  say  lent,  I  mean  I  told  him  I  only  lent  them,  to 
spare  his  feelings  ;  but,  of  course,  I  never  meant  to  have 
them  back  again." 

"  Yes,  but  my  dear  neighbour,  you  cannot  refuse  to  let 
them  repay  you,  now  they  are  so  differently  situated." 

"  Why,  no ;  I  think  if  Morel  were  to  offer  them  to 
me  now,  I  should  not  refuse  them  ;  it  will,  at  any  rate, 
enable  me  to  begin  my  store  for  buying  the  chimney 
ornaments  I  do  so  long  to  possess.  You  would  scarcely 
believe  how  silly  I  am ;  but  I  almost  dream  of  a  beauti- 
ful clock,  such  a  one  as  I  showed  you  just  now,  and  two 
lovely  vases,  one  on  each  side." 

"  But,  then,  you  should  think  a  little  of  the  future." 

"  What  future  ?  " 

"  Suppose  you  were  to  be  ill,  for  instance." 

"  Me  ill  ?  Oh,  the  idea  !  "  And  the  fresh,  hearty 
laugh  of  Rigolette  resounded  through  the  street. 

"  Well,  why  should  you  not  be  ?  " 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  person  likely  to  be  sick  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  never  saw  a  more  bright  or  blooming 
countenance." 

"  Well,  then,  what  could  possibly  have  put  it  into 
your  head  to  talk  such  nonsense  as  to  suppose  I 
could  ever  be  ill  ?  " 

"  Nay,  but  —  " 

"  Why,  I  am  only  eighteen  years  of  age,  and,  consid- 
ering the  sort  of  life  I  lead,  there  is  no  chance  of  such  a 
thing.    I  rise  at  five  o'clock,  winter  or  summer ;  I  am 
17 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


never  up  after  ten,  or,  at  latest,  eleven ;  I  eat  sufficient 
to  satisfy  my  appetite,  which  certainly  is  not  a  very 
great  one ;  I  do  not  suffer  from  exposure  to  cold ;  I 
work  all  day,  singing  as  merrily  as  a  lark  ;  and  at  night 
I  sleep  like  a  dormouse.  My  heart  is  free,  light,  and 
happy.  My  employers  are  so  well  satisfied  with  what  I 
do  for  them,  that  I  am  quite  sure  not  to  want  for  work ; 
so  what  is  there  for  me  to  be  ill  about  ?  It  really  is  too 
amusing  to  hear  you  try  to  talk  sense,  and  only  utter 
nonsense !  Me  ill ! "  And,  at  the  very  absurdity  of  the 
idea,  Rigolette  again  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of 
laughter,  so  loud  and  prolonged  that  a  stout  gentleman 
who  was  walking  before  her,  carrying  a  dog  under  his 
arm,  turned  around  quite  angrily,  believing  all  this 
mirth  was  excited  by  his  presence. 

Resuming  her  composure,  Rigolette  slightly  curtseyed 
to  the  stout  individual,  and  pointing  to  the  animal  under 
his  arm,  said  : 

"  Is  your  dog  so  very  tired,  sir  ?  " 

The  fat  man  grumbled  out  some  indistinct  reply,  and 
continued  on  his  way. 

"  My  dear  neighbour,"  said  Rodolph,  "  are  you  losing 
your  senses  ?  " 

"  It  is  your  fault  if  I  am." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  Because  you  talk  such  nonsense  to  me." 

"  Do  you  call  my  saying  that  perhaps  you  might  be 
ill,  talking  foolishly  ?  " 

And,  once  more  overcome  by  the  irresistible  mirth 
awakened  by  the  absurdity  of  Rodolph's  suggestion,  Rig- 
olette again  relapsed  into  long  and  hearty  fits  of  laugh- 
ter; while  Rodolph,  deeply  struck  by  this  blind,  yet 
happy  reliance  upon  the  future,  felt  angry  with  himself 
for  having  tried  to  shake  it,  though  he  almost  shuddered 
as  he  pictured  to  himself  the  havoc  a  single  month's  ill- 
ness would  make  in  this  peaceful  mode  of  life.  Then 
the  implicit  reliance  entertained  by  Rigolette  on  the  sta- 
18 


THE  TEMPLE. 


bility  of  her  employ,  and  her  youthful  courage,  her  sole 
treasures,  struck  Rodolph  as  breathing  the  very  essence 
of  pure  and  contented  innocence  ;  for  the  confidence  ex- 
pressed by  the  young  dressmaker  arose  neither  from 
recklessness  nor  improvidence,  but  from  an  instinctive 
dependence  and  belief  in  that  divine  justice  which  would 
never  forsake  a  virtuous  and  industrious  creature,  —  a 
simple  girl,  whose  greatest  crime  was  in  relying  too 
confidently  on  the  blessed  gifts  of  youth  and  health,  the 
precious  boon  of  a  heavenly  benefactor.  Do  the  birds 
of  the  air  remember,  as  they  flit  on  gay  and  agile,  wing 
amidst  the  blue  skies  of  summer,  or  skim  lightly  over 
the  sweet-smelling  fields  of  blooming  lucerne,  that  bleak, 
cold  winter  must  follow  so  much  enjoyment  ? 

"  Then,"  said  Rodolph  to  the  grisette,  "  it  seems  you 
have  no  wish  for  anything  more  than  you  already 
possess  ? " 

"  No,  really  I  have  not." 

"  Positively,  nothing  you  desire  ?  " 

"  No,  I  tell  you.  Stay,  yes,  now  I  recollect,  there  are 
those  sweet  pretty  chimney  ornaments  ;  but  I  shall  be 
sure  to  have  them  some  of  these  days,  though  I  do  not 
know  exactly  when ;  but  still,  they  do  so  run  in  my 
head,  that,  sooner  than  be  disappointed,  I  will  sit  up  all 
night  to  work." 

"  And  besides  these  ornaments  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  more ;  no,  I  cannot  recollect  any  one 
other  thing  I  care  for  more  especially  now." 

"  Why  now,  particularly  ? " 

"  Because,  yesterday,  if  you  had  asked  me  the  same 
question,  I  should  have  replied,  there  was  nothing  I 
wanted  more  than  an  agreeable  neighbour  in  your  apart- 
ments, to  give  me  an  opportunity  of  showing  all  the 
little  acts  of  kindness  I  have  been  accustomed  to  per- 
form, and  to  receive  nice  little  attentions  in  return." 

"  Well,  but  you  know,  my  dear  neighbour,  we  have 
already  entered  into  an  agreement  to  be  mutually  ser- 
19 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


viceable  to  each  other ;  you  will  look  after  my  linen  for 
me,  and  I  shall  clean  up  and  polish  your  chamber  for 
you  ;  and  besides  attending  to  my  linen,  you  are  to 
wake  me  every  morning  early  by  tapping  against  the 
wainscot." 

"  And  do  you  think  you  have  named  all  I  shall  expect 
you  to  do  ?  " 

«  What  else  can  I  do  ?" 

"  Oh,  bless  you,  you  have  not  yet  come  to  the  end  of 
your  services !  Why,  do  you  not  intend  to  take  me  out 
every  Sunday,  either  to  the  Boulevards  or  beyond  the 
barriers  ?  You  know  that  is  the  only  day  I  can  enjoy  a 
little  pleasure." 

"  To  be  sure  I  do  ;  and  when  summer  comes  we  will 
go  into  the  country." 

"  No,  no,  I  hate  the  country  !  I  cannot  bear  to  be  any- 
where but  in  Paris.  Yet  I  used,  once  upon  a  time,  to 
go,  out  of  good  nature,  with  a  young  friend  of  mine,  who 
was  with  me  in  prison,  to  visit  Meudon  and  St.  Ger- 
main. My  friend  was  a  very  nice,  good  girl,  and  be- 
cause she  had  such  a  sweet  voice,  and  was  always 
singing,  people  used  to  call  her  the  Goualeuse." 

"  And  what  has  become  of  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  She  spent  all  the  money  she  brought 
with  her  out  of  prison,  without  seeming  to  have  much 
pleasure  for  it;  she  was  inclined  to  be  mournful  and 
serious,  though  kind  and  sympathising  to  every  one.  At 
the  time  we  used  to  go  out  together  I  had  not  met  with 
any  work  to  do,  but  directly  I  procured  employment,  I 
never  allowed  myself  a  holiday.  I  gave  her  my  address, 
but,  as  she  never  came  to  see  me,  I  suppose  she,  like  my- 
self, was  too  busy  to  spare  the  time.  But  I  dare  say  you 
don't  care  to  hear  any  more  about  her ;  I  only  men- 
tioned it  because  I  wanted  to  show  you  that  it  is  no  use 
asking  me  to  go  into  the  country  with  you,  for  I  never 
did,  and  never  will  go  there,  except  with  the  young 
friend  I  was  telling  you  about;  but  whenever  you  can 
20 


THE  TEMPLE. 

afford  to  take  me  out  to  dinner  or  to  the  play,  I  shall  be 
quite  ready  to  accompany  you,  and  when  it  does  not 
suit  you  to  spend  the  money,  or  when  you  have  none  to 
spend,  why  then  we  will  take  a  walk,  and  have  a  good 
look  at  the  shops,  which  is  almost  the  nicest  thing  I 
know,  unless  it  is  buying  at  them.  And  I  promise  you, 
you  shall  have  no  reason  to  feel  ashamed  of  my  appear- 
ance, let  us  go  out  among  ever  such  company.  Oh, 
when  I  wear  my  dark  blue  levantine  silk  gown,  I  flatter 
myself  I  do  look  like  somebody  !  It  is  such  a  love  of  a 
dress,  and  fits  me  so  beautifully !  I  never  wear  it  but 
on  Sundays,  and  then  I  put  on  such  a  love  of  a  lace  cap, 
trimmed  with  shaded  orange-colour  riband,  which  looks 
so  well  with  dark  hair  like  mine  ;  then  I  have  some  such 
elegant  boots  of  satin  hue,  made  for  me,  not  bought  at 
the  Temple !  And  last  of  all  comes  such  a  shawl !  Oh, 
neighbour,  I  doubt  if  you  ever  walked  with  any  one  in 
such  perfect  beauty ;  it  is  a  real  bourre-de-soie,  in  imita- 
tion of  cashmere.  I  quite  expect  we  shall  be  stared  at 
and  admired  by  every  one  as  we  go  along ;  the  men  will 
look  back  as  they  pass  me,  and  say,  '  Upon  my  word 
that's  an  uncommon  pretty-looking  girl,  —  she  is,  'pon 
honour  ! '  Then  the  women  will  cry,  1  What  a  stylish- 
looking  man !  Do  you  see  that  tall,  thin  person  ?  I 
declare,  he  has  such  a  fashionable  appearance  that  he 
might  pass  as  somebody  if  he  liked ;  what  a  becoming 
and  handsome  moustachio  he  has ! '  And  between  our- 
selves, neighbour,  I  quite  agree  with  these  remarks,  and 
especially  about  the  moustachio,  for  I  dearly  love  to  see 
a  man  wear  them.  Unfortunately  M.  Germain  did  not 
wear  a  moustachio,  on  account  of  the  situation  he  held  ; 
I  believe  his  employer  did  not  permit  his  young  men  to 
wear  them.  To  be  sure,  M.  Cabrion  did  wear  mous- 
tachios,  but  then,  his  were  quite  red,  like  his  great 
bushy  beard,  and  I  hate  those  huge  beards  ;  and  besides, 
I  did  not  like  Cabrion  for  two  other  reasons  ;  one  was, 
he  used  to  play  all  kinds  of  scampish  tricks  out  in  the 
21 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


street,  and  the  other  thing  I  disliked  was  his  tormenting 
poor  old  Pipelet  as  he  did.  Certainly,  M.  Giraudeau, 
the  person  who  lived  next  to  me  before  M.  Cabrion,  was 
rather  a  smart-looking  man,  and  dressed  very  well ;  but 
then  he  squinted,  and  at  first  that  used  to  put  me  out 
very  much,  because  he  always  seemed  to  be  looking  past 
me  at  some  one  by  my  side,  and  I  always  found  myself, 
without  thinking  of  it,  turning  around  to  see  who  it 
could  be." 

And  here  Rigolette  indulged  in  another  peal  of  merry 
laughter. 

As  Rodolph  listened  to  all  this  childish  and  voluble 
talk,  he  felt  almost  at  a  loss  how  to  estimate  the  preten- 
sions of  the  grisette  to  be  considered  of  first-rate  pru- 
dence and  virtue ;  sometimes  the  very  absence  of  all 
reserve  in  her  communications,  and  the  recollection  of 
the  great  bolt  on  her  door,  made  him  conclude  that  she 
bore  a  general  and  platonic  affection  only  for  every 
occupant  of  the  chamber  adjoining  her  own,  and  that 
her  interest  in  them  was  nothing  more  than  that  of  a 
sister ;  but  again  he  smiled  at  the  credulity  which  could 
believe  such  a  thing  possible,  when  the  unprotected  con- 
dition of  the  young  dressmaker,  and  the  fascinations  of 
Messrs.  Giraudeau,  Cabrion,  and  Germain  were  taken 
into  account.  Still,  the  frankness  and  originality  of 
Rigolette  made  him  pause  in  the  midst  of  his  doubts, 
and  refuse  to  allow  him  to  judge  harshly  of  the  ingenu- 
ous and  light-hearted  being  who  tripped  beside  him. 

"  I  am  delighted  at  the  way  you  have  disposed  of  my 
Sundays,"  said  Rodolph,  gaily.  "  I  see  plainly  we  shall 
have  some  capital  treats." 

"  Stop  a  little,  Mr.  Extravagance,  and  let  me  tell  you 
how  I  mean  to  regulate  our  expenses ;  in  the  summer 
we  can  dine  beautifully,  either  at  the  Chartreuse  or  the 
Montmartre  hermitage,  for  three  francs,  then  half  a 
dozen  quadrilles  or  waltzes,  and  a  ride  upon  the  wooden 
horses,  —  oh,  I  do  so  love  riding  on  horseback  !  —  well, 
'  22 


THE  TEMPLE. 


that  will  bring  it  altogether  to  about  five  francs,  not  a 
farthing  more,  I  assure  you.    Do  you  waltz  ? " 
"  Yes,  very  well." 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  M.  Cabrion  always  trod  on  my 
toes,  so  that  he  quite  put  me  out ;  and  then,  too,  by  way 
of  a  joke,  he  used  to  throw  fulminating  balls  about  on 
the  ground ;  so  at  last  the  people  at  the  Chartreuse 
would  not  allow  us  to  be  admitted  there." 

"  Oh,  I  promise  you  to  be  very  well  behaved  whenever 
we  are  met  together ;  and  as  for  the  fulminating  balls, 
I  promise  you  never  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
them ;  but  when  winter  comes,  how  shall  we  manage 
then  ? " 

"  Why,  in  the  winter  we  shall  be  able  to  dine  very 
comfortably  for  forty  sous.  I  think  people  never  care  so 
much  for  eating  in  the  winter  as  summer ;  so  then  we 
shall  have  three  francs  left  to  pay  for  our  going  to  the 
play,  for  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  exceed  a  hundred  sous 
for  the  whole  of  our  expenses,  and  that  is  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  spend  in  pleasure ;  but  then,  if  you  were  out 
alone,  it  would  cost  you  much  more  at  the  tavern  or 
billiard-rooms,  where  you  would  only  meet  a  parcel  of 
low,  ignorant  men,  smelling  of  tobacco  enough  to  choke 
you.*"  Is  it  not  much  better  for  you  to  pass  a  pleasant 
day  with  a  nice  little,  cheerful,  good-tempered  compan- 
ion, who,  in  return  for  the  holiday  you  so  agreeably 
pass  with  her,  will  contrive  to  make  up  the  extra  ex- 
pense she  costs  you  by  hemming  your  handkerchiefs, 
and  looking  after  your  domestic  affairs  ? " 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  advantageous,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned  ;  but  suppose  any  of  my  friends  should  meet 
me  walking  with  my  pretty  neighbour,  what  then  ?  " 

"  What  then  !  Why,  they  would  just  look  at  you,  and 
then  at  me  ;  and  then  they  would  smile  and  say, '  That's 
a  lucky  fellow,  that  Rodolph  ! '  " 

"  You  know  my  name,  do  you  ? " 

"  Why,  of  course,  when  I  heard  that  the  chamber  ad- 
23* 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARTS. 


joining  mine  was  let,  I  inquired  the  name  of  the  person 
who  had  taken  it." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  every  one  who  met  us  out  together 
would  remark,  as  you  observe,  what  a  lucky  fellow  I 
was ;  then  the  next  thing  would  be  to  envy  me." 

"  So  much  the  better." 

"  They  would  believe  I  was  perfectly  happy." 

"  Of  course,  of  course  they  would." 

"  All  the  while  I  should  only  be  so  in  appearance." 

"  Well,  what  does  that  signify  ?  As  long  as  people 
think  you  happy,  what  does  it  matter  whether  you  are 
really  so  or  not  ?  Men  neither  require  nor  care  for 
more  than  outward  show." 

"  But  your  reputation  might  suffer." 

Rigolette  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter. 

"  The  reputation  of  a  grisette ! "  said  she.  "Do  you 
suppose  that  any  person  believes  in  such  a  phenomenon  ? 
Ah,  if  I  had  either  father,  mother,  brother,  or  sister,  for 
their  sakes  I  should  fear  what  people  might  say  of  me, 
and  be  anxious  about  the  world's  opinion ;  but  I  am 
alone  in  the  world,  and  have  no  person  to  consider  but 
myself,  so,  while  I  know  myself  to  be  free  from  blame 
or  reproach,  I  care  not  for  what  any  one  may  say  of 
me,  or  think  either." 

"  But  still  I  should  be  very  unhappy." 

"What  for?" 

"  To  pass  for  being  a  happy  as  well  as  a  lucky  fellow, 
when,  after  the  fashion  of  Papa  Cr^tu's  dinner,  I  should 
be  expected  to  make  a  meal  off  a  dry  crust,  while  all  the 
tempting  dishes  contained  in  a  cookery-book  were  being 
read  to  me." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  you  will  be  quite  contented  to  live  as 
I  describe.  You  will  find  me  so  grateful  for  every  little 
act  of  kindness,  so  easily  pleased,  and  so  little  trouble- 
some, that  I  know  you  will  say, '  Why,  after  all,  I  may 
as  well  spend  my  Sunday  with  her  as  with  any  one  else.' 
If  you  have  any  time  in  the  evening,  and  have  no  objec- 
24 


THE  TEMPLE. 


tion  to  come  and  sit  with  me,  you  can  have  the  use  of 
my  fire  and  light.  If  it  would  not  tire  you  to  read 
aloud,  you  would  amuse  me  by  reading  some  nice  novel 
or  romance.  Better  do  that  than  lose  your  money  at 
cards  or  billiards  ;  otherwise,  if  you  are  occupied  at  your 
office,  or  prefer  going  to  a  caf£,  you  can  just  bid  me  good 
night  when  you  come  in,  if  I  happen  still  to  be  up ;  but 
should  I  have  gone  to  bed,  why  then  I  will  wish  you 
good  morning  at  an  early  hour  next  day,  by  tapping 
against  your  wainscot  to  awaken  you.  Why,  M.  Ger- 
main, my  last  fellow  lodger,  used  to  pass  all  his  evenings 
with  me  in  that  manner,  and  never  complained  of  their 
being  dull.  He  read  me  all  Walter  Scott's  novels  in  the 
course  of  the  winter,  which  was  really  very  amusing. 
Sometimes,  when  it  chanced  to  be  a  wet  Sunday,  he 
would  go  and  buy  something  at  the  pastry-cook's,  and 
we  used  to  have  a  nice  little  dinner  in  my  room ;  and 
afterwards  we  amused  ourselves  with  reading ;  and  we 
liked  that  almost  as  well  as  going  to  the  theatre.  You 
see  by  this  that  I  am  not  hard  to  please,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, am  always  ready  to  do  what  I  can  to  make  things 
pleasant  and  agreeable.  And  then  you  were  talking 
about  illness.  Oh,  if  ever  you  should  be  ill,  then,  in- 
deed, I  should  be  a  comfort  to  you,  a  real  Sister  of 
Charity !  Only  ask  the  Morels  what  sort  of  a  nurse  I 
am.  You  don't  half  know  your  own  good  fortune,  M. 
Rodolph ;  you  have  drawn  a  real  prize  in  the  lottery  of 
good  luck  to  have  me  for  a  neighbour,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you ;  but  I  always  was  lucky. 
Apropos  of  your  late  fellow  lodger,  M.  Germain,  where 
is  he  at  present  ?  " 

"  In  Paris,  I  believe." 

"  Then  you  do  not  see  much  of  him  now  ?  " 
"  No,  he  has  never  been  to  see  me  since  he  quitted 
the  house." 

"  But  where  is  he  living  ?  And  what  is  he  doing  at 
present  ? " 

25 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ? " 

"  Because,"  said  Rodolph,  smiling,  "  I  am  jealous  of 
him,  and  I  wish  —  " 

"  Jealous !  "  exclaimed  Rigolette,  bursting  into  a  fit  of 
laughter.  "  La,  bless  you,  there  is  no  occasion  for  that, 
poor  fellow ! " 

"  But,  seriously,  my  good  neighbour,  I  wish  most  par- 
ticularly to  obtain  M.  Germain's  address,  or  to  be 
enabled  to  meet  him.  You  know  where  he  lives ;  and 
without  any  boast,  I  think  I  have  good  reason  to  expect 
you  would  trust  me  with  the  secret  of  his  residence,  and 
to  believe  me  quite  incapable  of  revealing  again  the  in- 
formation I  ask  of  you,  assuring  you  most  solemnly  it  is 
for  his  own  interest  more  than  mine  I  am  solicitous  of 
finding  him." 

"And  seriously,  my  good  neighbour,  although  it  is 
probable  and  possible  your  intentions  towards  M.  Ger- 
main are  as  you  report  them,  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  give 
you  the  address  of  M.  Germain,  he  having  strictly  and 
and  expressly  forbidden  my  so  doing  to  any  person  what- 
ever ;  therefore,  when  I  refuse  to  tell  you,  you  may  be 
quite  sure  it  is  because  I  really  am  not  at  liberty  to  do 
so ;  and  that  ought  not  to  make  you  feel  offended  with 
me.  If  you  had  entrusted  me  with  a  secret,  you  would 
be  pleased,  would  you  not,  to  have  me  as  careful  of  it, 
and  determined  not  to  reveal  it,  as  I  am  about  M.  Ger- 
main's affair  ?  "  . 

«  Nay,  but  —  " 

"  Neighbour,  once  and  for  all,  do  not  say  anything 
more  on  this  subject.  I  have  made  a  promise  which  I 
will  keep  faithfully  and  honourably ;  so  now  you  know 
my  mind,  and  if  you  ask  me  a  hundred  times,  I  shall 
answer  you  just  the  same." 

Spite  of  her  thoughtlessness  and  frivolity,  the  young 
dressmaker  pronounced  these  last  words  with  so  much 
firmness  that,  to  his  great  regret,  Rodolph  perceived  the 
impossibility  of  gaining  the  desired  information  respect- 
26 


THE  TEMPLE. 


ing  Germain  through  her  means ;  and  his  mind  revolted 
at  the  idea  of  laying  any  snare  to  entrap  her  into  a  be- 
trayal of  her  secret ;  he  therefore,  after  a  slight  pause, 
gaily  replied : 

"  Well,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it,  then ;  but,  upon 
my  life,  I  don't  wonder  at  you,  who  can  so  well  keep  the 
secrets  of  others,  guarding  your  own  so  closely." 

"  Me  have  secrets  ? "  cried  Bigolette.  "  I  only  wish  I 
had  some  more  secrets  of  my  own ;  it  must  be  very 
amusing  to  have  secrets.". 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  assert  that  you  have  not 
a  4  nice  little  secret '  about  some  love-affair  ? " 

"  Love-affair !  " 

"  Are  you  going  to  persuade  me  you  have  never  been 
in  love  ?  "  said  Rodolph,  looking  fixedly  at  Rigolette,  the 
better  to  read  the  truth  in  her  telltale  features. 

"  Been  in  love  ?  Why,  of  course  I  have,  with  M. 
Giraudeau,  M.  Cabrion,  M.  Germain,  and  you ! " 

"  Are  you  sure  you  loved  them  just  as  you  do  me, 
neither  more  nor  less  ? " 

"  Oh,  really,  I  cannot  tell  you  so  very  exactly !  If 
anything,  I  should  say  less;  because  I  had  to  become 
accustomed  to  the  squinting  eyes  of  M.  Giraudeau,  the 
disagreeable  jokes  and  red  beard  of  M.  Cabrion,  and 
the  low  spirits  and  constant  dejection  of  M.  Germain, 
for  the  poor  young  man  was  very  sad,  and  always 
seemed  to  have  a  heavy  load  on  his  mind,  while  you, 
on  the  contrary,  took  my  fancy  directly  I  saw  you." 

"  Come  now,  my  pretty  neighbour,  you  must  not  be 
angry  with  me ;  I  am  going  to  speak  candidly  and 
sincerely,  like  an  old  friend." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid  to  say  anything  to  me ;  I  am 
very  good-natured ;  and  besides,  I  feel  certain  you  are 
too  kind ;  you  could  never  have  the  heart  to  say  any- 
thing to  me  that  would  give  me  pain." 

"  You  are  quite  right ;  but  do  tell  me  truly,  have  you 
never  had  any  lovers  ? " 

27 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


"  Lovers !  I  should  think  not !  What  time  have  I  for 
such  things  ?  " 

«  What  has  time  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  everything,  to  be  sure.  In  the  first  place,  I 
should  be  jealous  as  a  tigress ;  and  I  should  be  continu- 
ally worrying  myself  with  one  idea  or  another ;  and  let 
me  ask  you  whether  you  think  it  is  likely  I  could  afford 
to  lose  two  or  three  hours  a  day  in  fretting  and  grieving. 
And  then,  suppose  my  lover  were  to  turn  out  false  !  Oh, 
what  tears  it  would  cost  me ;  how  wretched  I  should  be ! 
All  that  sort  of  thing  would  put  me  sadly  behindhand 
with  my  work,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Well,  but  all  lovers  are  not  faithless  and  a  cause  of 
grief  and  sorrow  to  their  mistress." 

"  Oh,  bless  you !  It  would  be  still  worse  for  me,  if  he 
were  all  goodness  and  truth.  Why,  then  I  should  not 
be  able  to  live  without  him  for  a  single  hour ;  and  as 
most  probably  he  would  be  obliged  to  remain  all  day  in 
his  office,  or  shop,  or  manufactory,  I  should  be  like  some 
poor,  restless  spirit  all  the  time  of  his  absence.  I  should 
imagine  all  sorts  of  things,  picture  to  myself  his  being 
at  that  moment  pleasantly  engaged  in  company  with  one 
he  loved  better  than  myself.  And  then,  if  he  forsook 
me,  oh,  Heaven  only  knows  what  I  might  be  tempted 
to  do  in  my  despair,  or  what  might  become  of  me.  One 
thing  is  very  certain,  that  my  work  would  suffer  for  it ; 
and  then  what  should  I  do  ?  Why,  quietly  as  I  live  at 
present,  it  is  much  as  I  can  manage  to  live  by  working 
from  twelve  to  fifteen  hours  a  day.  Where  should  I  be, 
if  I  were  to  lose  three  or  four  days  a  week  by  tormenting 
myself  ?  How  could  I  ever  catch  up  all  that  time  ?  Oh, 
I  never  could  ;  it  would  be  quite  impossible  !  I  should 
be  obliged,  then,  to  take  a  situation,  to  live  under  the 
control  of  a  mistress;  but  no,  no,  I  will  never  bring 
myself  to  that,  —  I  love  my  liberty  too  well." 

«  Your  liberty  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  might  go  as  forewoman  to  the  person  who 

28 


THE  TEMPLE. 


keeps  the  warehouse  for  which  I  work  ;  she  would  give 
me  four  hundred  francs  a  year,  with  board  and  lodging." 
"  And  you  will  not  accept  it  ? " 

"  No,  indeed !  I  should  then  be  the  slave  and  servant 
of  another ;  whereas,  however  humble  my  home,  at  least 
there  is  no  one  there  to  control  me.  I  am  free  to  come 
and  go  as  I  please.  I  owe  nothing  to  any  one.  I  have 
good  health,  good  courage,  good  heart,  and  good  spirits ; 
and  now  that  I  can  say  a  good  neighbour  also,  what  is 
there  left  to  desire  ?  " 

"  Then  you  have  never  thought  of  marriage  ?  " 

"  Marriage,  indeed !  Why,  what  would  be  the  use  of 
my  thinking  about  it,  when,  poor  as  I  am,  I  could  not 
expect  to  meet  with  a  husband  better  off  than  myself  ? 
Look  at  the  poor  Morels  ;  just  see  the  consequences  of 
burthening  yourself  with  a  family  before  you  have  the 
means  of  providing  for  one  ;  whilst,  so  long  as  there  is 
only  oneself  to  provide  for,  one  can  always  manage 
somehow." 

"  And  do  you  never  build  castles  in  the  air  ?  —  never 
dream  ? " 

"  Dream  ?  Oh,  yes !  —  of  my  chimney  ornaments ;  but, 
besides  them,  what  can  I  have  to  wish  for  ? " 

"  But,  suppose  now  some  relation  you  never  heard  of 
in  your  life  were  to  die,  and  leave  you  a  nice  little  for- 
tune —  twelve  hundred  francs  a  year,  for  instance  —  you 
have  made  five  hun,dred  sufficient  to  supply  all  your 
wants  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  might  prove  a  good  thing ;  perhaps  a  bad 
one." 

"  How  could  it  be  a  bad  one  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  happy  and  contented  as  I  am ;  but  I 
do  not  know  what  I  might  be  if  I  came  to  be  rich.  I 
can  assure  you  that,  when,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  I  go 
to  bed  in  my  own  snug  little  room,  when  my  lamp  is  ex- 
tinguished, and  by  the  glimmer  of  the  few  cinders  left 
in  my  stove  I  see  my  neat,  clean  little  apartment,  my 
29 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


curtains,  my  chest  of  drawers,  my  chairs,  my  birds,  my 
watch,  my  table  covered  with  the  work  confided  to  me, 
left  all  ready  to  begin  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and 
I  say  to  myself,  all  this  is  mine,  —  I  have  no  one  to  thank 
for  it  but  myself,  —  oh,  neighbour,  the  very  thoughts  lull 
me  into  such  a  happy  state  of  mind  that  I  fall  asleep 
believing  myself  the  most  fortunate  creature  on  earth  to 
be  so  surrounded  with  comforts.  But,  I  declare,  here 
we  are  at  the  Temple  !  You  must  own  it  is  a  beautiful 
object  ? " 

Although  not  partaking  of  the  profound  admiration 
expressed  by  Rigolette  at  the  first  glimpse  of  the  Tem- 
ple, Rodolph  was,  nevertheless,  much  struck  by  the  sin- 
gular appearance  of  this  enormous  bazar  with  its  many 
diverging  passages  and  dependencies.  Towards  the  mid- 
dle of  the  Rue  du  Temple,  not  far  from  the  fountain 
which  stands  in  the  corner  of  a  large  square,  may  be 
seen  an  immense  parallelogram,  built  of  wood,  and  sur- 
mounted with  a  slated  roof.  This  building  is  the  Temple, 
bounded  on  the  left  by  the  Rue  du  Petit  Thouars,  and  on 
the  right  by  the  Rue  Perce'e  ;  it  leads  to  a  large  circular 
building,  —  a  colossal  rotunda,  surrounded  with  a  gallery, 
forming  a  sort  of  arcade.  A  long  opening,  intersecting 
this  parallelogram  in  its  length  and  breadth,  divides  it 
into  two  equal  parts,  which  are  again  divided  and  sub- 
divided into  an  infinity  of  small  lateral  and  transverse 
openings,  crossing  each  other  in  all  directions,  and  shel- 
tered by  the  roof  of  the  building  from  all  severity  of 
weather.  In  this  bazar  new  merchandise  is  generally 
prohibited ;  but  the  smallest  fragment  of  any  sort  of 
material,  the  merest  morsel  of  iron,  brass,  lead,  or 
pewter,  will  here  find  both  a  buyer  and  a  seller. 

Here  are  to  be  .found  dealers  in  pieces  of  every  col- 
oured cloth,  of  all  ages,  qualities,  shades,  and  capabilities, 
for  the  service  of  such .  as  wish  to  repair  or  alter  dam- 
aged or  ill-fitting  garments.  Some  of  the  shops  present 
huge  piles  of  old  shoes,  some  trodden  down  of  heel, 
30 


THE  TEMPLE. 


others  twisted,  torn,  worn,  split,  and  in  holes,  presenting 
a  mass  of  nameless,  formless,  colourless  objects,  among 
which  are  grimly  visible  some  species  of  fossil  soles 
about  an  inch  thick,  studded  with  thick  nails,  resem- 
bling the  door  of  a  prison  and  hard  as  a  horse's  hoof, 
the  actual  skeletons  of  shoes  whose  other  component 
parts  have  long  since  been  consumed  by  the  devouring 
hand  of  Time.  Yet  all  this  mouldy,  dried  up  accumula- 
tion of  decaying  rubbish  will  find  a  willing  purchaser,  an 
extensive  body  of  merchants  trading  in  this  particular 
line. 

Then  there  are  the  vendors  of  gimps,  fringes,  bindings, 
cords,  tassels,  and  edgings  of  silk,  cotton,  or  thread,  aris- 
ing out  of  the  demolition  of  curtains  past  all  cure  and 
defying  all  reparation.  Other  enterprising  individuals 
devote  themselves  to  the  sale  of  females'  hats  and  bon- 
nets, these  articles  only  reaching  their  emporium  by  the 
means  of  the  dealers  in  old  clothes,  and  after  having  per- 
formed the  strangest  journeys  and  undergone  the  most 
surprising  transformations,  the  most  singular  changes  of 
colour. 

In  order  that  the  article  traded  in  may  not  take  up  too 
much  room  in  a  warehouse  ordinarily  the  size  of  a  large 
box,  these  bonnets  are  carefully  folded  in  half,  then  flat- 
tened and  laid  upon  each  other  as  closely  as  they  can  be 
packed,  with  the  exception  of  the  brim.  They  are  treated 
in  every  respect  the  same  as  herrings,  requiring  to  be 
stowed  in  a  cask.  By  these  means  it  is  almost  incredi- 
ble what  a  quantity  of  these  usually  fragile  articles  may 
be  accommodated  in  a  small  space  of  about  four  feet 
square. 

Should  a  purchaser  present  himself,  the  various  speci- 
mens are  removed  from  the  high  pressure  to  which  they 
have  been  exposed,  the  vendor,  with  a  degagZ  air,  gives 
the  crown  a  dexterous  blow  with  his  fist,  which  makes 
the  centre  rise  to  its  accustomed  situation,  then  presses 
the  front  out  upon  his  knee,  concluding  by  holding  up, 
U 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


with  an  air  of  intense  satisfaction  at  his  own  ingenuity, 
an  object  so  wild,  so  whimsical,  and  withal  so  irresistibly- 
striking,  as  to  remind  one  of  those  traditional  costumes 
ascribed  for  ages  past  to  fishwomen,  apple-women,  or  any 
whose  avocation  involves  the  necessity  of  carrying  a 
basket  on  the  head. 

Farther  on,  at  the  sign  of  the  Gout  du  Jour,  beneath 
the  arcades  of  the  Rotunda,  elevated  at  the  end  of  the 
large  opening  which  intersects  the  Temple  and  divides  it 
into  two  parts,  are  suspended  myriads  of  vestments  of  all 
colours,  forms,  and  fashions,  even  more  various  and  ex- 
traordinary in  their  respective  styles  than  the  bonnets 
just  described.  There  may  be  seen  stylish  coats  of  un- 
bleached linen,  adorned  with  three  rows  of  brass  buttons 
d  la  hussar de,  and  sprucely  ornamented  with  a  small  fur 
collar  of  fox-skin ;  great-coats,  originally  bottle-green, 
but  changed,  by  age  and  service,  to  the  hue  of  the  pis- 
tachio nut,  edged  with  black  braid,  and  set  off  with  a 
bright  flaming  lining  of  blue  and  yellow  plaid,  giving 
quite  a  fresh  and  youthful  appearance,  and  producing 
the  most  genteel  and  tasty  effect ;  coats  that,  when  new, 
bore  the  appellation,  as  regards  their  cut,  of  being  d 
queue  de  Morue,  of  a  dark  drab  colour,  with  velvet,  shag, 
or  plush  collar,  and  further  decorated  with  buttons,  once 
silver-gilt,  but  now  changed  to  a  dull  coppery  hue.  In 
the  same  emporium  may  be  observed  sundry  pelisses  or 
polonaises  of  maroon-coloured  cloth,  with  cat-skin  collar, 
trimmed  with  braiding,  and  rich  in  brandenburgs,  tassels, 
and  cords.  Not  far  from  these  are  displayed  a  great 
choice  of  dressing-gowns  most  artistically  constructed 
out  of  old  cloaks,  whose  triple  collars  and  capes  have 
been  removed,  the  inside  lined  with  remnants  of  printed 
cotton,  the  most  in  request  being  blue  or  dark  green, 
made  up  here  and  there  with  pieces  of  various  distinct 
shades,  and  embroidered  with  old  braid,  and  lined  with 
red  cotton,  on  which  is  traced  a  flowing  design  in  vivid 
orange,  collar  and  cuffs  similarly  adorned;  a  cord  for 
32 


THE  TEMPLE. 


the  waist,  made  out  of  an  old  bell-rope,  serves  as  a 
finish  to  these  elegant  deshabilles  so  exultingly  worn  by- 
Robert  Macaire.  We  shall  briefly  pass  over  a  mass  of 
costumes  more  or  less  uncouth,  in  the  midst  of  which 
may  be  found  some  real  and  authentic  relics  of  royalty 
or  greatness,  dragged  by  the  revolution  of  time  from  the 
palaces  of  the  rich  and  mighty  to  the  dingy  shelves  of 
the  Rotunda  of  the  Temple. 

These  displays  of  old  shoes,  hats,  and  coats  are  the 
grotesque  parts  of  the  bazar, —  the  place  where  rags  and 
faded  finery  seek  to  set  up  their  claim  to  notice.  But  it 
must  be  allowed,  or  rather  distinctly  asserted,  that  the 
vast  establishment  we  are  describing  is  of  immense  utility 
to  the  poor  or  persons  in  mediocre  circumstances.  There 
they  may  purchase,  at  an  amazing  decrease  of  price,  most 
excellent  articles,  nearly  new,  and  whose  wear  has  been 
little  or  none.  One  side  of  the  Temple  was  devoted  to 
articles  of  bedding,  and  contained  piles  of  blankets, 
sheets,  mattresses,  and  pillows.  Farther  on  were  car- 
pets, curtains,  every  description  of  useful  household 
utensil.  Close  at  hand  were  stores  of  wearing  apparel, 
shoes,  stockings,  caps,  aiid  bonnets,  for  all  ages,  as  well 
as  all  classes  and  conditions. 

All  these  articles  were  scrupulously  clean  and  devoid 
of  anything  that  could  offend  or  shock  the  most  fastidi- 
ous person.  Those  who  have  never  visited  this  bazar 
will  scarcely  credit  in  how  short  a  space  of  time,  and 
with  how  little  money,  a  cart  may  be  filled  with  every 
requisite  for  the  complete  fitting  out  of  two  or  three 
utterly  destitute  families. 

Rodolph  was  particularly  struck  with  the  manner,  at 
once  attentive,  eager,  and  cheerful,  of  the  various  dealers, 
as,  standing  at  the  door  of  their  shops,  they  solicited  the 
patronage  and  custom  of  the  passers-by.  Their  mode  of 
address,  at  once  familiar  and  respectful,  seemed  alto- 
gether unlike  the  tone  of  the  present  day.  Scarcely  had 
Rigolette  and  her  companion  entered  that  part  of  the 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


place  devoted  to  the  sale  of  bedding,  than  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  the  most  seducing  offers  and  solicitations. 

"  Walk  in,  sir,  and  look  at  my  mattresses,  if  you 
please,"  said  one.  "  They  are  quite  new.  I  will  just 
open  a  corner  to  show  you  how  beautifully  white  and 
soft  the  wool  is,  —  more  like  the  wool  of  a  lamb  than  a 
sheep." 

"  My  pretty  lady,  step  in  and  see  my  beautiful,  fine 
white  sheets.  They  are  better  than  new,  for  the  first 
stiffness  has  been  taken  out  of  them.  They  are  soft  as 
a  glove,  and  strong  as  iron." 

"  Come,  my  new-married  couple,  treat  yourselves  to 
one  of  my  handsome  counterpanes.  Only  see  how  soft, 
light,  and  warm  it  is,  —  quite  as  good  as  eider-down,  — 
every  bit  the  same  as  new,  —  never  been  used  twenty 
times.  Now,  then,  my  good  lady,  persuade  your  hus- 
band to  treat  you  to  one.  Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of 
serving  you,  and  I  will  fit  you  up  for  housekeeping  as 
cheaply  as  you  can  desire.  Oh,  you'll  be  pleased,  I 
know,  —  you'll  come  again  to  see  Mother  Bouvard! 
You  will  find  I  keep  everything.  I  bought  a  splendid 
lot  of  second-hand  goods  yesterday.  Pray  walk  in  and 
let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  showing  them  to  you.  Come, 
you  may  as  well  see  if  you  don't  buy.  I  shall  charge 
you  nothing  for  looking  at  them." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  neighbour,"  said  Rodolph  to  Rigolette, 
"  this  fat  old  lady  shall  have  the  preference.  She  takes 
us  for  husband  and  wife.  I  am  so  pleased  with  her  for 
the  idea  that  I  decide  upon  laying  out  my  money  at  her 
shop." 

"  Well,  then,  let  it  be  the  fat  old  lady,"  said  Rigolette. 
"  I  like  her  appearance,  too." 

Rigolette  and  her  companion  then  went  into  Mother 
Bouvard's.  By  a  magnanimity,  perhaps  unexampled 
before  in  the  Temple,  the  rivals  of  Mother  Bouvard 
made  no  disturbance  at  the  preference  awarded  to  her 
One  of  her  neighbours,  indeed,  went  so  far  as  to  say : 
34 


THE  TEMPLE. 


"  So  long  as  it  is  Mother  Bouvard,  and  no  one  else, 
that  has  this  customer ;  she  has  a  family,  and  is  the 
dowager  and  the  honour  of  the  Temple." 

It  was,  indeed,  impossible  to  have  a  face  more  prepos- 
sessing, more  open,  and  more  frank  than  that  of  the 
dowager  of  the  Temple. 

"  Here,  my  pretty  little  woman,"  she  said  to  Rigolette, 
who  was  looking  at  sundry  articles  with  the  eye  of  a  con- 
noisseur, « this  is  the  second-hand  bargain  I  told  you  of : 
two  bed  furnitures  and  bedding  complete,  and  as  good  as 
new.  If  you  would  like  a  small  old  secretaire  very  cheap, 
here  is  one  (and  Mother  Bouvard  pointed  to  one).  I  had 
it  in  the  same  lot.  I  do  not  usually  buy  furniture,  but  I 
could  not  refuse  this,  for  the  poor  people  of  whom  I  had 
it  appeared  to  be  so  very  unhappy !  Poor  lady !  it  was 
the  sale  of  this  piece  of  furniture  which  seemed  to  cut 
her  to  the  very  heart.  I  dare  say  it  was  a  family  piece 
of  '  furniture.' " 

At  these  words,  and  whilst  the  shopkeeper  was  settling 
with  Rigolette  as  to  the  prices  of  the  various  articles  of 
purchase,  Rodolph  was  attentively  looking  at  the  secre- 
taire which  Mother  Bouvard  had  pointed  out.  It  was 
one  of  those  ancient  pieces  of  rosewood  furniture,  almost 
triangular  in  shape,  closed  by  a  front  panel,  which  let 
down,  and,  supported  by  two  long  brass  hinges,  served 
for  a  writing-table.  In  the  centre  of  this  panel,  which 
was  inlaid  with  ornaments  of  wood  of  different  patterns, 
Rodolph  observed  a  cipher  let  in,  of  ebony,  and  which 
consisted  of  an  M.  and  an  R.,  intertwined  and  surmounted 
with  a  count's  coronet.  He  conjectured,  therefore,  that 
the  last  possessor  of  this  piece  of  furniture  was  a  person 
in  an  elevated  rank  of  society.  His  curiosity  increased, 
and  he  looked  at  the  secretaire  with  redoubled  scrutiny ; 
he  opened  the  drawers  mechanically,  one  after  the  other, 
when,  having  some  difficulty  in  drawing  out  the  last,  and 
trying  to  discover  the  obstacle,  he  perceived,  and  drew 
carefully  out,  a  sheet  of  paper,  half  shut  up  between  the 
35 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


drawer  and  the  bottom  of  the  opening.  Whilst  Rigolette 
was  concluding  her  bargain  with  Mother  Bouvard,  Rodolph 
was  engrossed  in  examining  what  he  had  found.  From 
the  numerous  erasures  which  covered  this  paper,  he  per- 
ceived that  it  was  the  copy  of  an  unfinished  letter. 
Rodolph,  with  considerable  difficulty,  made  out  what 
follows : 

"  Sir  :  Be  assured  that  the  most  extreme  misery  alone  could 
compel  me  to  the  step  which  I  now  take.  It  is  not  mistaken 
pride  which  causes  my  scruples,  but  the  absolute  want  of  any  and 
every  claim  on  you  for  the  service  which  I  am  about  to  ask.  The 
sight  of  my  daughter,  reduced,  as  well  as  myself,  to  the  most 
frightful  destitution,  has  made  me  throw  aside  all  hesitation.  A 
few  words  only  as  to  the  cause  of  the  misfortunes  which  have 
overwhelmed  me.  After  the  death  of  my  husband,  all  my  for- 
tune was  three  hundred  thousand  francs  (12,000Z.),  which  was 
placed  by  my  brother  with  M.  Jacques  Ferrand,  the  notary ;  I 
received  at  Angers,  whither  I  had  settled  with  my  daughter,  the 
interest  of  this  sum,  remitted  to  me  by  my  brother.  You  know, 
sir,  the  horrible  event  which  put  an  end  to  his  days.  Ruined,  as 
it  seems,  by  secret  and  unfortunate  speculations,  he  put  an  end 
to  his  existence  eight  months  since.  After  this  sad  event,  I 
received  a  few  lines,  written  by  him  in  desperation  before  this 
awful  deed.  '  When  I  should  peruse  them,'  he  wrote,  '  he  should 
no  longer  exist.'  He  terminated  this  letter  by  informing  me 
that  he  had  not  any  acknowledgment  of  the  sum  which  he  had 
placed,  in  my  name,  with  M.  Jacques  Ferrand,  as  that  individual 
never  gave  any  receipt,  but  was  honour  and  piety  itself ;  that, 
therefore,  it  would  be  sufficient  for  me  to  present  myself  to  that 
gentleman,  and  my  business  would  be  regularly  and  satisfactorily 
adjusted.  As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  turn  my  attention  to  any- 
thing besides  the  mournful  end  of  my  poor  brother,  I  came  to 
Paris,  where  I  knew  no  one,  sir,  but  yourself,  and  you  only  by 
the  connection  that  had  subsisted  between  yourself  and  my  hus- 
band. I  have  told  you  that  the  sum  deposited  with  M.  Jacques 
Ferrand  was  my  entire  fortune,  and  that  my  brother  forwarded 
to  me  every  six  months  the  interest  which  arose  from  that  sum. 
More  than  a  year  had  elapsed  since  the  last  payment,  and,  con- 
sequently, I  went  to  M.  Jacques  Ferrand  to  ask  the  amount  of 
him,  as  I  was  greatly  in  want  of  it.  Scarcely  was  I  in  his  pres- 
ence, than,  without  any  consideration  of  my  grief,  he  accused  my 
brother  of  having  borrowed  two  thousand  francs  of  him,  which 
he  had  lost  by  his  death,  adding,  that  not  only  was  suicide  a 
36 


THE  TEMPLE. 


crime  before  God  and  man,  but,  also,  that  it  was  an  act  of  rob- 
bery, of  which  he,  M.  Jacques  Ferrand,  was  the  victim.  I  was 
indignant  at  such  language,  for  the  remarkable  probity  of  my 
poor  brother  was  well  known ;  he  had,  it  is  true,  unknown  to  me 
and  his  friends,  lost  his  fortune  in  hazardous  speculations,  but  he 
had  died  with  an  unspotted  reputation,  deeply  regretted  by  all, 
and  not  leaving  any  debt  except  to  his  notary.  I  replied  to  M. 
Ferrand,  that  I  authorised  him  at  once  to  take  the  two  thousand 
francs,  which  he  claimed  from  my  brother,  from  the  three  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  of  mine,  which  had  been  deposited  with 
him.  At  these  words,  he  looked  at  me  with  an  air  of  utter 
astonishment,  and  asked  me  what  three  hundred  thousand  francs 
I  alluded  to.  1  To  those  which  my  brother  placed  in  your  hands 
eighteen  months  ago,  sir,  and  of  which  I  have,  till  now,  received 
the  interest  paid  by  you  through  my  brother,'  I  replied,  not  com- 
prehending his  question.  The  notary  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
smiled  disdainfully,  as  if  my  words  were  not  serious,  and  replied 
that,  so  far  from  depositing  any  money  with  him,  my  brother 
had  borrowed  two  thousand  francs  from  him. 

"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  express  to  you  my  horror  at  this 
reply.  '  What,  then,  has  become  of  this  sum  ? '  I  exclaimed.  *  My 
daughter  and  myself  have  no  other  resource,  and,  if  we  are 
deprived  of  that,  nothing  remains  for  us  but  complete  wretched- 
ness. What  will  become  of  us ?  '  'I  really  don't  know,'  replied 
the  notary,  coldly.  1  It  is  most  probable  that  your  brother, 
instead  of  placing  this  sum  with  me,  as  you  say,  has  used  it  in 
those  unfortunate  speculations  in  which,  unknown  to  any  one,  he 
was  engaged.'  '  It  is  false,  sir  ! '  I  exclaimed.  1  My  brother  was 
honour  itself,  and,  so  far  from  despoiling  me  and  my  daughter, 
he  would  have  sacrificed  himself  for  us.  He  would  never  marry, 
in  order  that  he  might  leave  all  he  had  to  my  child.'  '  Dare  you 
to  assert,  madame,  that  I  am  capable  of  denying  a  deposit  con- 
fided in  me?'  inquired  the  notary,  with  indignation,  which 
seemed  so  honourable  and  sincere  that  I  replied,  'No,  certainly 
not,  sir ;  your  reputation  for  probity  is  well  known ;  but  yet  I 
can  never  accuse  my  brother  of  so  cruel  an  abuse  of  confidence.' 
<  What  are  your  proofs  of  this  claim  ? '  inquired  M.  Ferrand.  '  I 
have  none,  sir.  Eighteen  months  since,  my  brother,  who  under- 
took the  management  of  my  affairs,  wrote  to  me,  saying,  "  I  have 
an  excellent  opportunity  of  obtaining  six  per  cent. ;  send  me  your 
power  of  attorney  to  sell  your  stock,  and  I  will  deposit  the  three 
hundred  thousand  francs,  which  I  will  make  up,  with  M.  Jacques 
Ferrand,  the  notary."  I  sent  the  papers  which  he  asked  for  to 
my  brother,  and  a  few  days  afterwards  he  informed  me  that  the 
investment  was  made  by  you,  and  at  the  end  of  six  months  he 


37 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


remitted  to  me  the  interest  due.'  '  At  least,  then,  you  have  some 
letters  on  this  subject,  madame  ? '  <  No,  sir ;  they  were  only  on 
family  matters,  and  I  did  not  preserve  them.'  '  Unfortunately, 
madame,  I  cannot  do  anything  in  this  matter,'  replied  the 
notary.  1  If  my  honesty  was  not  beyond  all  suspicion,  all  attack, 
I  should  say  to  you,  the  courts  of  law  are  open  to  you,  —  attack 
me  ;  the  judges  will  have  to  choose  between  the  word  of  an  hon- 
ourable man,  who  for  thirty  years  has  had  the  esteem  of  worthy 
men,  and  the  posthumous  declaration  of  a  man  who,  after  being 
ruined  in  most  foolish  undertakings,  has  found  refuge  only  in 
suicide.  I  say  to  you  now,  attack  me,  madame,  if  you  dare,  and 
your  brother's  memory  will  be  dishonoured !  But  I  believe  you 
will  have  the  good  sense  to  resign  yourself  to  a  misfortune  which, 
no  doubt,  is  very  severe,  but  to  which  I  am  an  entire  stranger.' 
'  But,  sir,  I  am  a  mother !  If  my  fortune  is  lost,  my  daughter  and 
I  have  nothing  left  but  a  small  stock  of  furniture  ;  if  that  is  sold, 
we  have  nothing  left,  sir,  —  nothing,  but  the  most  frightful  des- 
titution staring  us  in  the  face.'  '  You  have  been  cheated,  —  it  is 
a  misfortune,  but  I  can  do  nothing  in  the  matter,'  answered  the 
notary.  <  Once  more,  madame,  your  brother  has  deceived  you. 
If  you  doubt  between  his  word  and  mine,  attack  me;  go  to 
law,  and  the  judges  will  decide.'  I  quitted  the  notary's  in  the 
deepest  despair.  What  could  I  do  in  this  extremity  ?  I  had  no 
means  of  proving  the  validity  of  my  claim ;  I  was  convinced  of 
the  strict  honour  of  my  brother,  and  confounded  at  the  asser- 
tion of  M.  Ferrand,  and  having  no  person  to  whom  I  could  turn 
for  advice  (for  you  were  travelling),  and  knowing  that  I  must 
have  money  to  pay  for  legal  opinions  and  advice,  and  desiring  to 
preserve  the  very  little  that  I  had  left,  I  dared  not  commence  a 
suit  at  law.    It  was  at  this  juncture  —  " 

This  sketch  of  the  letter  ended  here,  for  what  followed 
was  covered  with  ink  erasures,  which  completely  blotted 
out  the  lines.  At  the  bottom  of  the  page,  and  in  the 
corner,  Rodolph  found  this  kind  of  memorandum  : 

"  To  write  to  the  Duchesse  de  Lucenay,  for  M.  de  Saint-Remy." 

Rodolph  remained  deeply  thoughtful  after  the  perusal 
of  this  fragment  of  a  letter,  in  which  he  had  found  two 
names  whose  connection  struck  him.  Although  the  fresh 
infamy  which  appeared  to  accuse  Jacques  Ferrand  was 
not  proved,  yet  this  man  had  proved  himself  so  pitiless 
towards  the  unhappy  Morel,  had  behaved  so  shamefully 
38 


THE  TEMPLE. 


to  Louise,  his  daughter,  that  the  denial  of  a  deposit, 
protected  by  certain  impunity,  on  the  part  of  such  a 
wretch,  appeared  to  him  by  no  means  improbable.  This 
mother,  who  claimed  a  fortune  which  had  disappeared  so 
strangely,  was,  doubtless,  used  to  a  life  of  ease  and  com- 
fort. Ruined  by  a  sudden  blow,  and  knowing  no  one 
in  Paris,  as  the  letter  said,  what  must  have  been  the  exist- 
ence of  these  two  females,  perhaps  utterly  destitute  and 
alone  in  the  midst  of  this  vast  metropolis  ! 

The  prince  had,  as  we  know,  promised  sure  occupation 
to  madame,  by  giving  her  accidentally,  and  to  employ 
her  mind,  a  part  to  play  in  some  future  work  of  charity, 
being  certain  to  find  sure  misery  for  her  to  curtail  before 
his  next  meeting  with  that  lady.  He  thought  that, 
perhaps,  chance  might  bring  before  him  some  unfortunate 
and  worthy  person,  who  would,  as  he  trusted,  interest  the 
heart  and  imagination  of  Madame  d'Harville.  The 
sketch  of  the  letter  which  he  held  in  his  hands,  and 
the  copy  of  which  had,  doubtless,  never  been  sent  to  the 
person  whose  assistance  was  implored,  evinced  a  high 
and  resigned  mind,  which  would  revolt  from  an  offer  of 
alms.  So,  then,  how  many  precautions,  how  many  plans, 
how  much  delicacy,  must  be  employed  to  conceal  the 
source  of  such  generous  succour,  or  to  make  it  accepted ! 
And,  then,  how  much  address  to  introduce  oneself  to 
such  a  female,  in  order  to  judge  if  she  really  merited  the 
interest  which  she  seemed  capable  of  inspiring  !  Rodolph 
foresaw  in  the  development  of  this  mysterious  affair  a 
multitude  of  new  and  touching  emotions,  which  would 
singularly  attract  Madame  d'Harville  in  the  way  he  had 
previously  proposed  to  her. 

"  Well,  husband,"  said  Rigolette,  gaily,  to  Rodolph, 
"  what  is  there  so  interesting  in  that  piece  of  paper, 
which  you  are  reading  there  ? " 

"  My  little  wife,"  replied  Rodolph,  "  you  are  very 
inquisitive ;  I  will  tell  you  by  and  by.  Have  you 
bought  all  you  want?" 

39 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Yes ;  and  your  poor  friends  will  be  set  up  like 
kings.  There  is  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  pay ;  Ma- 
dame Bouvard  has  made  every  allowance,  I  must  do 
her  that  credit." 

"  My  little  wife,  an  idea  occurs  to  me  ;  whilst  I  am 
paying,  suppose  you  go  and  choose  the  clothes  for 
Madame  Morel  and  her  children  ?  I  confess  my  igno- 
rance on  the  subject  of  such  purchases.  You  can  tell 
them  to  bring  everything  here,  and  then  all  the  things 
will  be  together,  and  the  poor  people  will  have  every- 
thing at  once." 

"  You  are  right,  husband.  Wait  here,  and  I  shall  not 
be  long ;  I  know  two  shopkeepers  here,  where  I  am  a 
regular  customer,  and  I  shall  find  in  their  shops  all  I 
require." 

And  Rigolette  went  out,  saying : 

"  Madame  Bouvard,,  take  care  of  my  husband,  and  do 
not  flirt  with  him,  mind,  whilst  I  am  gone." 

And  then  came  the  laugh,  and  away  the  merry  maiden 
ran. 

"  I  must  say,  sir,"  said  Mother  Bouvard  to  Rodolph, 
"  that  you  have  a  capital  little  manager  there.  Peste ! 
she  knows  how  to  make  a  bargain !  And  then  she  is  so 
prettily  behaved  and  pretty-looking !  red  and  white,  with 
those  large,  beautiful  black  eyes,  and  such  hair !  " 

"  Is  she  not  charming  ?  and  ain't  I  a  happy  husband, 
Madame  Bouvard  ?  " 

"  As  happy  a  husband  as  she  is  a  wife,  I  am  sure  of 
that." 

"  You  are  not  mistaken.  But  tell  me  how  much  I 
owe  you." 

"  Your  little  lady  would  only  give  me  three  hundred 
and  thirty  francs  for  the  whole ;  as  true  as  heaven's 
above  us,  I  only  make  fifteen  francs  by  the  bargain,  for 
I  did  not  try  to  get  the  things  as  cheaply  as  I  might, 
for  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  bate  'em  down ;  the  people  who 
sold  'em  seemed  so  uncommon  miserable  !  " 

40 


THE  TEMPLE. 


"  Really !  Were  they  the  same  people  that  you  bought 
this  little  secretaire  of  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  and  it  cuts  my  heart  to  think  of  it !  Only 
imagine,  the  day  before  yesterday  there  came  here  a 
young  and  still  pretty  girl,  but  so  pale  and  thin  one 
could  almost  see  through  her  ;  and  you  know  that  pains 
people  that  have  any  feeling  at  all.  Although  she  was, 
as  they  say,  neat  as  a  new-made  pin,  her  old  threadbare 
black  worsted  shawl,  her  black  stuff  gown,  which  was 
also  worn  bare,  her  straw  bonnet,  in  the  month  of  Janu- 
ary, for  she  was  in  mourning,  all  showed  what  we  call 
great  distress,  for  I  am  sure  she  was  a  real  lady.  At 
last,  blushing  up  to  the  very  eyes,  she  asked  me  if  I 
would  buy  two  beds  and  bedding  complete,  and  a  little 
old  secretaire.  I  said  that,  as  I  sold,  of  course  I  bought, 
and  that  if  they  would  suit  me  I  would  have  them,  but 
that  I  must  see  the  things.  She  then  asked  me  to  go 
with  her  to  her  apartment,  not  far  off,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Boulevards,  in  a  house  on  the  Quay  of  St.  Mar- 
tin's Canal.  I  left  my  niece  in  the  shop,  and  followed 
the  lady  until  we  reached  a  smallish  house  at  the  bottom 
of  a  court ;  we  went  up  to  the  fourth  floor,  and,  the  lady 
having  knocked,  the  door  was  opened  by  a  young  girl 
about  fourteen  years  of  age,  who  was  also  in  mourning, 
and  equally  pale  and  thin,  but  still  very,  very  pretty,  so 
much  so  that  I  was  quite  astonished." 

"  Well,  and  this  young  girl  ?  " 

"  Was  the  daughter  of  the  lady  in  mourning.  Though 
it  was  very  cold,  yet  a  thin  gown  of  black  cotton  with 
white  spots,  and  a  small,  shabby  mourning  shawl,  that 
was  all  she  had  on  her." 

"  And  their  rooms  were  wretched  ?  " 

"  Imagine,  sir,  two  little  rooms,  very  neat,  but  nearly 
empty,  and  so  cold  that  I  was  almost  froze  ;  there  was 
not  a  spark  of  fire  in  the  grate,  nor  any  appearance  of 
there  having  been  any  for  a  very  long  time.  All  the 
furniture  was  two  beds,  two  chairs,  a  chest  of  drawers, 
41 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


an  old  portmanteau,  and  the  small  secretaire,  and  on  the 
chest  was  a  parcel,  wrapped  in  a  pocket-handkerchief. 
This  small  parcel  was  all  the  mother  and  child  had  left 
when  their  furniture  was  once  sold.  The  landlord  had 
taken  the  two  bedsteads,  the  chairs,  a  trunk,  and  a  table, 
for  what  was  due  to  him,  as  the  porter  said,  who  had 
gone  up-stairs  with  us.  Then  the  lady  begged  me  fairly 
to  estimate  the  mattresses,  sheets,  curtains,  and  quilts  ; 
and,  as  I  am  an  honest  woman,  sir,  although  it  is  my 
business  to  buy  cheap  and  sell  dear,  yet,  when  I  saw  the 
poor  young  thing  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  her 
mother,  who,  in  spite  of  her  affected  calmness,  seemed  to 
be  weeping  in  her  heart,  I  offered  for  the  things  fifteen 
francs  more  than  they  were  worth  to  sell  again,  I  swear 
I  did ;  I  agreed,  too,  just  to  oblige  them,  to  take  this 
small  secretaire,  although  it  is  not  a  sort  of  thing  I  ever 
deal  in." 

"  I  will  buy  it  of  you,  Madame  Bouvard." 

"  Will  you  though  ?  So  much  the  better,  sir,  for  it  is 
else  likely  to  stay  with  me  for  some  time  ;  I  took  it,  as  I 
say,  only  to  oblige  the  poor  lady.  I  told  her  then  what 
I  would  give  for  the  things,  and  I  expected  that  she 
would  haggle  a  bit  and  ask  me  something  more,  I  did. 
Then  it  was  that  I  saw  she  was  not  one  of  the  common  ; 
she  was  in  downright  misery,  she  was,  and  no  mistake 
about  it,  I  am  sure !  I  says  to  her,  1  It's  worth  so  much.' 
She  answers  me,  and  says, '  Very  well ;  let  us  go  back  to 
your  shop,  and  you  can  pay  me  there,  for  we  shall  not 
return  here  again  to  this  house.'  Then  she  says  to  her 
daughter,  who  was  sitting  on  the  trunk  a-crying, '  Claire, 
take  this  bundle.'  I  remember  her  name,  and  I'm  sure 
she  called  her  Claire.  Then  the  young  lady  got  up,  but, 
as  she  was  crossing  the  room,  as  she  came  to  the  little 
secretaire  she  went  down  on  her  knees  before  it,  and, 
dear  heart !  how  the  poor  thing  did  sob  !  '  Courage,  my 
dear  child;  remember  some  one  sees  you,'  said  her 
mother  to  her,  in  a  low  voice,  but  yet  I  heard  her.  You 
42 


THE  TEMPLE. 


may  tell,  sir,  they  were  poor,  but  very  proud  notwith- 
standing. When  the  lady  gave  me  the  key  of  the  little 
secretaire,  I  saw  a  tear  in  her  red  eyes,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  her  very  heart  bled  at  parting  with  this  old  piece  of 
furniture ;  but  she  tried  to  keep  up  her  courage,  and  not 
seem  downcast  before  strangers.  Then  she  told  the  por- 
ter that  I  should  come  and  take  away  all  that  the  land- 
lord did  not  keep,  and  after  that  we  came  back  here. 
The  young  lady  gave  her  arm  to  her  mother,  and  carried 
in  her  hand  the  small  bundle,  which  contained  all  they 
possessed  in  the  world.  I  handed  them  their  three  hun- 
dred and  fifteen  francs,  and  then  I  never  saw  them  again." 
"  But  their  name  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  the  lady  sold  me  the  things  in  the 
presence  of  the  porter,  and  so  I  had  no  occasion  to  ask 
her  name,  for  what  she  sold  belonged  to  her." 

."  But  their  new  address?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  either." 

"  No  doubt  they  know  at  their  old  lodging  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  for,  when  I  went  back  to  get  the  things, 
the  porter  told  me,  speaking  of  the  mother  and  daughter, 
'  that  they  were  very  quiet  people,  very  respectable,  and 
very  unfortunate,  —  I  hope  no  misfortune  has  happened 
to  them  !  They  appeared  to  be  very  calm  and  composed, 
but  I  am  sure  they  were  quite  in  despair.'  '  And  where 
are  they  gone  now  to  lodge  ? '  I  asked.  1  Ma  foi,  I  don't 
know  ! '  was  the  answer ;  '  they  left  without  telling  me, 
and  I  am  sure  they  will  not  return  here.' " 

The  hopes  which  Rodolph  had  entertained  for  a 
moment  vanished ;  how  could  he  go  to  work  to  dis- 
cover these  two  unfortunate  females,  when  all  the  trace 
he  had  of  them  was  that  the  young  daughter's  name  was 
Claire,  and  the  fragment  of  a  letter,  of  which  we  have 
already  made  mention,  and  at  the  bottom  of  which  were 
these  words : 


"  To  write  to  Madame  de  Lucenay,  for  M.  de  Saint-Remy?" 
43 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


The  only,  and  very  remote  chance  of  discovering  the 
traces  of  these  unfortunates  was  through  Madame  de 
Lucenay,  who,  fortunately,  was  on  intimate  terms  with 
Madame  d'Harville. 

"  Here,  ma'am,  be  so  good  as  to  take  your  money," 
said  Rodolph  to  the  shopkeeper,  handing  her  a  note  for 
five  hundred  francs. 

"  I  will  give  you  the  change,  sir.  What  is  your 
address  ?  " 

"  Rue  du  Temple,  No.  17." 

"  Rue  du  Temple,  No.  17  ;  oh,  very  well,  very  well,  I 
know  it." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  to  that  house  ? " 

"  Often.  First  I  bought  the  furniture  of  a  woman 
there,  who  lent  money  on  wages ;  it  is  not  a  very  cred- 
itable business,  to  be  sure,  but  that's  no  affair  of  mine,  — 
she  sells,  I  buy,  and  so  that's  settled.  Another  time,  not 
six  weeks  ago,  I  went  there  again  for  the  furniture  of  a 
young  man,  who  lived  on  the  fourth  floor,  and  was 
moving  away." 

"  M.  Francois  Germain,  perhaps  ?  "  said  Rodolph. 

"  Just  so.    Did  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Very  well ;  and,  unfortunately,  he  has  not  left  his 
present  address  in  the  Rue  du  Temple,  so  I  do  not  know 
where  to  find  him.  But  where  shall  we  find  a  cart  to 
take  the  goods  ?  " 

"As  it  is  not  far,  a  large  truck  will  do,  and  old 
Jdrome  is  close  by,  my  regular  commissionaire.  If  you 
wish  to  know  the  address  of  M.  Francois  Germain,  I 
can  help  you." 

"  What  ?    Do  you  know  where  he  lives  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  but  I  know  where  you  may  be  sure  to 
meet  with  him." 

"Where  ?" 

"  At  the  notary's  where  he  works." 
"  At  a  notary's  ?  " 

"  Yes,  who  lives  in  the  Rue  du  Sentier." 

44 


THE  TEMPLE. 


"  M.  Jacques  Ferrand  ?  "  exclaimed  Rodolph. 

"  Yes ;  and  a  very  worthy  man  he  is.  There  is  a 
crucifix  and  some  holy  boxwood  in  his  study ;  it  looks 
just  as  if  one  was  in  a  sacristy." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  that  M.  Germain  worked  at 
this  notary's  ?  " 

"  Why,  this  way :  this  young  man  came  to  me  to  ask 
me  to  buy  his  little  lot  of  furniture  all  of  a  lump.  So 
that  time,  too,  though  rather  out  of  my  line,  I  bought  all 
his  kit,  and  brought  it  here,  because  he  seemed  a  nice 
young  fellow,  and  I  had  a  pleasure  in  obliging  him. 
"Well,  I  bought  him  right  clean  out,  and  I  paid  him  well ; 
he  was,  no  doubt,  very  well  satisfied,  for,  a  fortnight 
afterwards,  he  came  again,  to  buy  some  bed  furniture 
from  me.  A  commissionaire,  with  a  truck,  went  with 
him,  everything  was  packed :  well,  but,  at  the  moment 
he  was  going  to  pay  me,  lo  and  behold !  he  had  forgotten 
his  purse ;  but  he  looked  so  like  an  honest  man  that  I 
said  to  him, 4  Take  the  things  with  you,  —  never  mind, 
I  shall  be  passing  your  way,  and  will  call  for  the  money.' 
6  Very  good,'  says  he ;  '  but  I  am  never  at  home,  so 
call  to-morrow  in  the  Rue  du  Sentier,  at  M.  Jacques 
Ferrand's,  the  notary,  where  I  am  employed,  and  I  will 
pay  you.'  I  went  next  day,  and  he  paid  me ;  only,  what 
was  very  odd  to  me  was  that  he  sold  his  things,  and 
then,  a  fortnight  afterwards,  he  buys  others." 

Rodolph  thought  that  he  was  able  to  account  for  this 
singular  fact.  Germain  was  desirous  of  destroying  every 
trace  from  the  wretches  who  were  pursuing  him :  fearing, 
no  doubt,  that  his  removal  might  put  them  on  the  scent  of 
his  fresh  abode,  he  had  preferred,  in  order  to  avoid  this 
danger,  selling  his  goods,  and  afterwards  buying  others. 

The  prince  was  overjoyed  to  think  of  the  happiness  in 
store  for  Madame  Georges,  who  would  thus,  at  length, 
see  again  that  son  so  long  and  vainly  sought. 

Rigolette  now  returned,  with  a  joyful  eye  and  smiling 
lips. 

45 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Well,  did  not  I  tell  you  so  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  am 
not  deceived  :  we  shall  have  spent  six  hundred  and  forty 
francs  all  together,  and  the  Morels  will  be  set  up  like 
princes.  Here  come  the  shopkeepers ;  are  they  not 
loaded  ?  Nothing  will  now  be  wanting  for  the  family ; 
they  will  have  everything  requisite,  even  to  a  gridiron, 
two  newly  tinned  saucepans,  and  a  coffee-pot.  I  said  to 
myself,  since  they-  are  to  have  things  done  so  grandly, 
let  them  be  grand ;  and,  with  all  that,  I  shall  not  have 
lost  more  than  three  hours.  But  come,  neighbour,  pay 
as  quickly  as  you  can,  and  let  us  be  gone.  It  will  soon 
be  noon,  and  my  needle  must  go  at  a  famous  rate  to 
make  up  for  this  morning." 

Rodolph  paid,  and  quitted  the  Temple  with  Rigolette. 

At  the  moment  when  the  grisette  and  her  companion 
were  entering  the  passage,  they  were  almost  knocked 
over  by  Madame  Pipelet,  who  was  running  out,  fright- 
ened, troubled,  and  aghast. 

"  Mercy  on  us ! "  said  Rigolette,  "  what  ails  you, 
Madame  Pipelet  ?  Where  are  you  running  to  in  that 
manner  ? " 

"  Is  it  you,  Mile.  Rigolette  ? "  exclaimed  Anastasie ; 
"  it  is  Providence  that  sends  you ;  help  me  to  save 
the  life  of  Alfred." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  The  darling  old  duck  has  fainted.  Have  mercy 
on  us !  Run  for  me,  and  get  me  two  sous'  worth  of 
absinthe  at  the  dram-shop,  —  the  strongest,  mind ;  it  is 
his  remedy  when  he  is  indisposed  in  the  pylorus,  —  that 
generally  sets  him  up  again.  Be  kind,  and  do  not  refuse 
me,  I  can  then  return  to  Alfred ;  I  am  all  over  in  such 
a  fluster." 

Rigolette  let  go  Rodolph's  arm,  and  ran  quickly  to 
the  dram-shop. 

"  But  what  has  happened,  Madame  Pipelet  ?  "  inquired 
Rodolph,  following  the  porteress  into  the  lodge. 

"  How  can  I  tell,  my  worthy  sir  ?  I  had  gone  out  to 
46 


THE  TEMPLE. 


the  mayor's,  to  church,  and  the  cook-shop,  to  save  Alfred 
so  much  trotting  about ;  I  returned,  and  what  should  I 
see  but  the  dear  old  cosset  with  his  legs  and  arms  all  in 
the  air !  There,  M.  Rodolph,"  said  Anastasie,  opening 
the  door  of  her  dog-hole,  "  say  if  that  is  not  enough  to 
break  one's  heart !  " 

Lamentable  spectacle !  With  his  bell-crowned  hat 
still  on  his  head,  even  further  on  than  usual,  for  the 
ambiguous  castor,  pushed  down,  no  doubt,  by  violence, 
to  judge  by  a  transverse  gap,  covered  M.  Pipelet's  eyes, 
who  was  on  his  back  on  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  his 
bed.  The  fainting  was  over,  and  Alfred  was  beginning 
to  make  some  slight  gesticulations  with  his  hands,  as 
if  he  sought  to  repulse  somebody  or  something,  and 
then  he  tried  to  push  off  this  troublesome  visor,  with 
which  he  had  been  bonneted. 

"  He  kicks,  —  that's  a  beautiful  symptom  !  He  comes 
to ! "  exclaimed  the  porteress,  who,  stooping  down, 
bawled  in  his  ears, "  What's  the  matter  with  my  Alfred  ? 
It's  his  'Stasie  who  is  with  him.  How  goes  it  now  ? 
There's  some  absinthe  coming,  that  will  set  you  up." 
Then,  assuming  a  falsetto  voice  of  much  endearment, 
she  added :  "  What,  did  they  abuse  and  assassinate  him, 
—  the  dear  old  darling,  the  delight  of  his  'Stasie,  eh  ?" 

Alfred  heaved  an  immense  sigh,  and,  with  a  mighty 
groan,  uttered  the  fatal  word : 

"  Cabrion ! " 

And  his  tremulous  hands  again  seemed  desirous  of 
repulsing  the  fearful  vision. 

"  Cabrion !  What,  that  cussed  painter  again  ? "  ex- 
claimed Madame  Pipelet.  "  Alfred  dreamed  of  him 
all  night  long,  so  that  he  kicked  me  almost  to  death. 
This  monster  is  his  nightmare ;  not.  only  does  he 
poison  his  days,  but  he  poisons  his  nights  also,  —  he 
pursues  him  in  his  very  sleep ;  yes,  sir,  as  though 
Alfred  was  a  malefactor,  and  this  Cabrion,  whom  may 
Heaven  confound  !  was  his  unceasing  remorse." 

47 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Rodolph  smiled,  discreetly  detecting  some  new  freak 
of  Rigolette's  former  neighbour. 

"  Alfred !  answer  me  ;  don't  remain  mute,  you  frighten 
me,"  said  Madame  Pipelet ;  "  let's  try  and  get  you  up. 
Why,  lovey,  do  you  keep  thinking  of  that  vagabond  fel- 
low ?  You  know  that,  when  you  think  of  that  fellow,  it 
has  the  same  effect  on  you  that  cabbage  has,  —  it  fills  up 
your  pylorus  and  stifles  you." 

"  Cabrion !  "  repeated  M.  Pipelet,  pushing  up,  with  an 
effort,  the  hat  which  had  fallen  so  low  over  his  eyes, 
which  he  rolled  around  him  with  an  affrighted  air, 

Rigolette  entered,  carrying  a  small  bottle  of  absinthe. 

"  Thankee,  ma'amselle,  you  are  so  kind  ! "  said  the  old 
body ;  and  then  she  added,  "  Come,  deary,  suck  this 
down,  that  will  make  you  all  right." 

And  Anastasie,  presenting  the  phial  quickly  to  M. 
Pipelet's  lips,  contrived  to  make  him  swallow  the  ab- 
sinthe. In  vain  did  Alfred  struggle  vigorously.  His 
wife,  taking  advantage  of  the  victim's  weakness,  held  up 
his  head  firmly  with  one  hand,  whilst  with  the  other  she 
introduced  the  neck  of  the  little  bottle  between  his 
teeth,  and  compelled  him  to  swallow  the  absinthe,  after 
which  she  exclaimed,  triumphantly : 

"  Ther-r-r-r-e,  now-w-w !  you're  on  your  pins  again, 
my  ducky ! " 

And  Alfred,  having  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of 
his  hand,  opened  his  eyes,  rose,  and  inquired,  in  accents 
of  alarm : 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

«  Who  ? " 

"  Is  he  gone  ?  " 

"Who,  Alfred?" 

"  Cabrion  !  " 

"  Has  he  dared  —  "  asked  the  porteress. 

M.  Pipelet,  as  mute  as  the  statue  of  the  commandant, 
like  that  redoubtable  spectre,  bowed  his  head  twice  with 
an  affirmative  air. 

48 


THE  TEMPLE. 


"  What !  has  M.  Cabrion  been  here  ?  "  inquired  Rigo- 
lette,  repressing  a  violent  desire  to  laugh. 

"  What !  has  the  monster  been  unchained  on  Alfred  ?  " 
said  Madame  Pipelet.  "  Oh,  if  I  had  been  there  with 
my  broom,  he  should  have  swallowed  it,  handle  and  all ! 
But  tell  us,  Alfred,  all  about  this  horrid  affair." 

M.  Pipelet  made  signs  with  his  hand  that  he  was  about 
to  speak,  and  they  listened  to  the  man  with  the  bell- 
crowned  hat  in  religious  silence,  whilst  he  expressed 
himself  in  these  terms,  and  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion : 

"  My  wife  had  left  me,  to  save  me  the  trouble  of  going 
out,  according  to  the  request  of  monsieur,"  bowing  to 
Rodolph,  "  to  the  mayor's,  to  church,  and  the  cook-shop." 

"  The  dear  old  darling  had  had  the  nightmare  all 
night,  and  I  wished  to  save  him  the  journey,"  said 
Anastasie. 

"  This  nightmare  was  sent  me  as  a  warning  from 
on  high,"  responded  the  porter,  religiously.  "I  had 
dreamed  of  Cabrion,  and  I  was  to  suffer  from  Cabrion. 
Here  was  I  sitting  quietly  in  front  of  my  table,  reflecting 
on  an  alteration  which  I  wished  to  make  in  the  upper 
leather  of  this  boot  confided  to  my  hands,  when  I  heard 
a  noise,  a  rustling,  at  the  window  of  my  lodge,  —  was 
it  a  presentiment,  a  warning  from  on  high  ?  My  heart 
beat,  I  lifted  up  my  head,  and,  through  the  pane  of  glass, 
I  saw  —  I  saw  —  " 

"  Cabrion  !  "  exclaimed  Anastasie,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  Cabrion ! "  replied  M.  Pipelet,  gloomily.  "  His  hide- 
ous face  was  there,  pressed  close  against  the  window, 
and  he  was  looking  at  me  with  eyes  like  a  cat's  —  what 
do  I  say  ?  —  a  tiger's  !  just  as  in  my  dream.  I  tried  to 
speak,  but  my  tongue  clave  to  my  mouth  ;  I  tried  to  rise, 
I  was  nailed  to  my  seat.  My  boot  fell  from  my  hands, 
and,  as  in  all  the  critical  and  important  events  of  my 
life,  I  remained  perfectly  motionless.  Then  the  key 
turned  in  the  lock,  the  door  opened,  —  Cabrion  entered  !  " 

"  He  entered  ?  Owdacious  monster  ! "  replied  Madame 
49 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Pipelet,  as  much  astonished  as  her  spouse  at  such 
audacity. 

"  He  entered  slowly,"  resumed  Alfred,  "  stopped  a 
moment  at  the  threshold,  as  if  to  fascinate  me  with  his 
look,  atrocious  as  it  was,  then  he  advanced  towards 
me,  pausing  at  each  step,  and  piercing  me  through  with 
his  eye,  but  not  uttering  a  word,  —  straight,  mute,  and 
threatening  as  a  phantom  !  " 

"  I  declare,  my  very  heart  aches  to  hear  him,"  said 
Anastasie. 

"  I  remained  still  more  motionless,  and  glued  to  my 
chair ;  Cabrion  still  advanced  slowly  towards  me,  fixing 
his  eye  as  the  serpent  glares  at  the  bird  ;  he  so  frightened 
me  that,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  kept  my  eye  on  him ;  he 
came  close  to  me,  and  then  I  could  no  longer  endure  his 
revolting  aspect,  it  was  too  much,  and  I  could  not.  I 
shut  my  eyes,  and  then  I  felt  that  he  dared  to  place  his 
hands  upon  my  hat,  which  he  took  by  the  crown  and 
lifted  gently  off  my  head,  leaving  it  bare.  I  began  to  be 
seized  with  vertigo,  my  breathing  was  suspended,  there 
was  a  singing  in  my  ears,  and  I  was  completely  fastened 
to  my  seat,  and  I  closed  my  eyes  still  closer  and  closer. 
Then  Cabrion  stooped,  took  my  head  between  his  hands, 
which  were  as  cold  as  death,  and  on  my  forehead,  covered 
with  an  icy  damp,  he  deposited  a  brazen  kiss,  indecent 
wretch  !  " 

Anastasie  lifted  her  hands  towards  heaven. 

"  My  enemy,  the  most  deadly,  imprinted  a  kiss  on  my 
forehead ;  such  a  monstrosity  overcame  and  paralysed 
me.  Cabrion  profited  by  my  stupor  to  place  my  hat  on 
my  head,  and  then,  with  a  blow  of  his  fist,  drove  it  down 
over  my  eyes,  as  you  saw.  This  last  outrage  destroyed 
me ;  the  measure  was  full,  all  about  me  was  turning 
around,  and  I  fainted  at  the  moment  when  I  saw  him, 
from  under  the  rim  of  my  hat,  leave  the  lodge  as  quietly 
and  slowly  as  he  had  entered." 

Then,  as  if  the  recital  had  exhausted  all  his  strength, 


THE  TEMPLE. 


M.  Pipelet  fell  back  in  his  chair,  raising  his  hands  to 
heaven  in  a  manner  of  mute  imprecation.  Rigolette 
went  out  quickly ;  she  could  not  restrain  herself  any 
longer ;  her  desire  to  laugh  almost  stifled  her.  Rodolph 
had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  keep  his  countenance. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  confused  murmur,  such  as 
announces  the  arrival  of  a  mob,  heard  from  the  street, 
and  a  great  noise  came  from  the  door  at  the  top  of  the 
entrance,  and  then  butts  of  grounded  muskets  were  heard 
on  the  steps  of  the  door. 


51 


t 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  AEBEST. 

"  Good  gracious !  M.  Rodolph,"  exclaimed  Rigolette, 
running  in,  pale  and  trembling,  «  a  commissary  of  police 
and  the  guard  have  come  here." 

"  Divine  justice  watches  over  me,"  said  M.  Pipelet,  in 
a  transport  of  pious  gratitude.  "  They  have  come  to 
arrest  Cabrion ;  unfortunately  it  is  too  late." 

A  commissary  of  police,  wearing  his  tricoloured  scarf 
around  his  waist  underneath  his  black  coat,  entered  the 
lodge.  His  countenance  was  impressive,  magisterial,  and 
serious. 

"  M.  le  Commissaire  is  too  late ;  the  malefactor  has 
escaped,"  said  M.  Pipelet,  in  a  sorrowful  voice;  "but  I 
will  give  you  his  description, — villainous  smile,  impu- 
dent look,  insulting  —  " 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ? "  inquired  the  magistrate. 

"  Of  Cabrion,  M.  le  Commissaire  ;  but,  perhaps,  if  you 
make  all  haste,  it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  catch  him,"  added 
M.  Pipelet. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  any  Cabrion,"  said  the  magis- 
trate, impatiently.  "Does  one  Jerome  Morel,  a  working 
lapidary,  live  in  this  house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mon  commissaire,"  said  Madame  Pipelet,  put- 
ting herself  into  a  military  attitude. 

"  Conduct  me  to  his  apartment." 

"  Morel,  the  lapidary  !  "  said  the  porteress,  excessively 
surprised ;  "  why,  he  is  the  mildest  lambkin  in  the  world. 
He  is  incapable  of  —  " 

52 


THE  ARREST. 


"  Does  J e*rome  Morel  live  here  or  not  ?  " 
"  He  lives  here,  sir,  with  his  family,  in  one  of  the 
attics." 

"  Lead  me  to  his  attic." 

Then,  addressing  himself  to  a  man  who  accompanied 
him,  the  magistrate  said : 

"  Let  two  of  the  municipal  guard  wait  below,  and  not 
leave  the  entrance.    Send  Justing  for  a  hackney-coach." 

The  man  left  the  lodge  to  put  these  orders  in  exe- 
cution. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  magistrate,  addressing  himself 
to  M.  Pipelet,  "  lead  me  to  Morel." 

"  If  it  is  all  the  same  to  you,  mon  commissaire,  I  will 
do  that  for  Alfred;  he  is  indisposed  from  Cabrion's 
behaviour,  which,  just  as  the  cabbage  does,  troubles  his 
pylorus." 

"You  or  your  husband,  it  is  no  matter  which.  Go 
forward." 

And,  preceded  by  Madame  Pipelet,  he  ascended  the 
staircase,  but  soon  stopped  when  he  saw  Rodolph  and 
Rigolette  following  him. 

"  Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  want  ? "  he  inquired. 

"They  are  two  lodgers  in  the  fourth  story,"  said 
Madame  Pipelet. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  did  not  know  that  you 
belonged  to  the  house,"  said  he  to  Rodolph. 

The  latter,  auguring  well  from  the  polite  behaviour  of 
the  magistrate,  said  to  him : 

"  You  are  going  to  see  a  family  in  a  state  of  deep 
misery,  sir.  I  do  not  know  what  fresh  stroke  of  ill  for- 
tune threatens  this  unhappy  artisan,  but  he  has  been 
cruelly  tried  last  night,  —  one  of  his  daughters,  worn 
down  by  illness,  is  dead  before  his  eyes,  —  dead  from 
cold  and  misery." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"It  is,  indeed,  the  fact,  mon   commissaire,"  said 
Madame  Pipelet.    "  But  for  this  gentleman  who  speaks 
53 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


to  you,  and  who  is  a  king  of  lodgers,  for  lie  has  saved 
poor  Morel  from  prison  by  his  generosity,  the  whole 
family  of  the  lapidary  must  have  died  of  hunger." 

The  commissary  looked  at  Rodolph  with  equal  sur- 
prise and  interest. 

"  Nothing  is  more  easily  explained,  sir,"  said  Rodolph. 
"  A  person  who  is  very  charitable,  learning  that  Morel, 
whose  honour  and  honesty  I  will  guarantee  to  you,  was 
in  a  most  deplorable  and  unmerited  state  of  distress, 
authorised  me  to  pay  a  bill  of  exchange  for  which  the 
bailiffs  were  about  to  drag  off  to  prison  this  poor  work- 
man, the  sole  support  of  his  numerous  family." 

The  magistrate,  in  his  turn,  struck  by  the  noble 
physiognomy  of  Rodolph,  as  well  as  the  dignity  of  his 
manners,  replied : 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  Morel's  probity.  I  only  regret  I 
have  to  fulfil  a  painful  duty  in  your  presence,  sir,  who 
have  so  deeply  interested  yourself  in  this  family." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  " 

"  From  the  services  you  have  rendered  to  the  Morels, 
and  your  language,  I  see,  sir,  that  you  are  a  worthy  per- 
son. Having,  besides,  no  reason  for  concealing  the  object 
of  the  warrant  which  I  have  to  execute,  I  will  confess 
to  you  that  I  am  about  to  apprehend  Louise  Morel,  the 
lapidary's  daughter." 

The  recollection  of  the  rouleau  of  gold,  offered  to  the 
bailiffs  by  the  young  girl,  occurred  to  Rodolph. 

"  Of  what  is  she  then  accused  ? " 

"  She  lies  under  a  charge  of  child-murder." 

«  She !  she !    Oh,  her  poor  father !  " 

"From  what  you  have  told  me,  sir,  I  imagine  that, 
under  the  miserable  circumstances  in  which  this  artisan 
is,  this  fresh  blow  will  be  terrible  for  him.  Unfortu- 
nately, I  must  carry  out  the  full  instructions  with  which 
I  am  charged." 

"But  it  is  at  present  only  an  accusation?"  asked 
Rodolph.    "Proofs,  no  doubt,  are  still  wanting?" 
54 


THE  ARREST. 


"  I  cannot  tell  you  more  on  that  point.  Justice  has 
been  informed  of  this  crime,  or  rather  the  presumptive 
crime,  by  the  statement  of  an  individual  most  respecta- 
ble in  every  particular,  Louise  Morel's  master." 

"  Jacques  Ferrand,  the  notary  ? "  said  Rodolph,  with 
indignation. 

"Yes,  sir  —  " 

"  M.  Jacques  Ferrand  is  a  wretch,  sir ! " 

"  I  am  pained  to  see  that  you  do  not  know  the  person 
of  whom  you  speak,  sir.  M.  Jacques  Ferrand  is  one  of 
the  most  honourable  men  in  the  world ;  his  rectitude  is 
universally  recognised." 

"  I  repeat  to  you,  sir,  that  this  notary  is  a  wretch.  It 
was  he  who  sought  to  send  Morel  to  prison  because  his 
daughter  repulsed  his  libidinous  proposals.  If  Louise  is 
only  accused  on  the  denunciation  of  such  a  man,  you 
must  own,  sir,  that  the  charge  deserves  but  very  little 
credit." 

"  It  is  not  my  affair,  sir,  and  I  am  very  glad  of  it,  to 
discuss  the  depositions  of  M.  Ferrand,"  said  the  magis- 
trate, coldly.  "  Justice  is  informed  in  this  matter,  and 
it  is  for  a  court  of  law  to  decide.  As  for  me,  I  have 
a  warrant  to  apprehend  Louise  Morel,  and  that  warrant 
I  must  put  into  execution." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  sir,  and  I  regret  that  an  impulse 
of  feeling,  however  just,  should  have  made  me  forget  for 
a  moment  that  this  was  neither  the  time  nor  the  place 
for  such  a  discussion.  One  word  only :  the  corpse  of 
the  child  which  Morel  has  lost  is  still  in  the  attic,  and  I 
have  offered  my  apartments  to  the  family  to  spare  them 
the  sad  spectacle  of  the  dead  body.  You  will,  therefore, 
find  the  lapidary,  and  possibly  his  daughter,  in  my  rooms. 
I  entreat  you,  sir,  in  the  name  of  humanity,  do  not  appre- 
hend Louise  abruptly  in  the  midst  of  the  unhappy  family 
only  a  short  time  since  snatched  from  their  state  of  utter 
wretchedness.  Morel  has  had  so  many  shocks  during 
this  night  that  it  is  really  to  be  feared  his  reason  may 
55 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


sink  under  it;  already  his  wife  is  dangerously  ill,  and 
such  a  blow  would  kill  him." 

"  Sir,  I  have  always  executed  my  orders  with 
every  possible  consideration,  and  I  shall  act  similarly 
now." 

"  Will  you  allow  me,  sir,  to  ask  you  one  favour  ?  It 
is  this :  the  young  female  who  is  following  us  occupies 
an  apartment  close  to  mine,  which,  I  have  no  doubt,  she 
would  place  at  your  disposal.  You  could,  in  the  first 
instance,  send  for  Louise,  and,  if  necessary,  for  Morel 
afterwards,  that  his  daughter  may  take  leave  of  him. 
You  will  thus  save  a  poor  sick  and  infirm  mother  from 
a  very  distressing  scene." 

"  Most  willingly,  sir,  if  it  can  be  so  arranged." 

The  conversation  we  have  just  described  was  carried 
on  in  an  undertone,  whilst  Rigolette  and  Madame  Pipe- 
let  kept  away  discreetly  a  few  steps'  distance  from  the 
commissary  and  Rodolph.  The  latter  then  went  to 
the  grisette,  whom  the  presence  of  the  commissary  had 
greatly  affrighted,  and  said  to  her : 

"  My  good  little  neighbour,  I  want  another  service 
from  you,  —  I  want  you  to  leave  your  room  at  my 
disposal  for  the  next  hour." 

"  As  long  as  you  please,  M.  Rodolph.  You  have  the 
key.    But,  oh,  say  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  by  and  by.  But  I  want  something 
more  ;  you  must  return  to  the  Temple,  and  tell  them  not 
to  bring  our  purchases  here  for  the  next  hour." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will,  M.  Rodolph ;  but  has  any  fresh 
misfortune  befallen  the  Morels  ? " 

"  Alas !  yes,  something  very  sad  indeed,  which  you 
will  learn  but  too  soon." 

"  Well,  then,  neighbour,  I  will  run  to  the  Temple. 
Alas,  alas !  I  was  thinking  that,  thanks  to  your  kind- 
ness, these  poor  people  had  been  quite  relieved  from 
their  trouble!"  said  the  grisette,  who  then  descended 
the  staircase  very  quickly. 

56 


THE  ARREST. 


Rodolph  had  been  very  desirous  of  sparing  Rigolette 
the  distressing  scene  of  Louise  Morel's  arrest. 

"  Mon  commissaire,"  said  Madame  Pipelet,  "  since  my 
king  of  lodgers  will  direct  you,  I  may  return  to  my 
Alfred.  I  am  uneasy  about  him,  for  when  I  left  him 
he  had  hardly  recovered  from  his  indisposition  which 
Cabrion  had  caused." 

"  Go,  go,"  said  the  magistrate,  who  was  thus  left 
alone  with  Rodolph. 

They  both  ascended  to  the  landing-place  on  the  fourth 
story,  at  the  door  of  the  chamber  in  which  the  lapidary 
and  his  family  had  been  temporarily  established. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened.  Louise,  pale  and  in  tears, 
came  out  quickly. 

"  Adieu,  adieu,  father !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  will  come 
back  again,  but  I  must  go  now." 

"Louise,  my  child,  listen  to  me  a  moment,"  said 
Morel,  following  his  daughter,  and  endeavouring  to 
detain  her. 

At  the  sight  of  Rodolph  and  the  magistrate,  Louise 
and  the  lapidary  remained  motionless. 

"  Ah,  sir,  you,  our  kind  benefactor ! "  said  the  artisan, 
recognising  Rodolph,  "  assist  me  in  preventing  Louise 
from  leaving  us.  I  do  not  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  her,  but  she  quite  frightens  me,  she  is  so  deter- 
mined to  go.  Now  there  is  no  occasion  for  her  to  return 
to  her  master,  is  there,  sir  ?  Did  you  not  say  to  me, 
4  Louise  shall  not  again  leave  you,  and  that  will  recom- 
pense you  for  much  that  you  have  suffered  ?  '  Ah !  at 
that  kind  promise,  I  confess  that  for  a  moment  I  had 
forgot  the  death  of  my  poor  little  Adesle  ;  but  I  must  not 
again  be  separated  from  thee,  Louise,  oh,  never,  never !  " 

Rodolph  was  wounded  to  the  heart,  and  was  unable  to 
utter  a  word  in  reply. 

The  commissary  said  sternly  to  Louise  : 

"  Is  your  name  Louise  Morel  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  young  girl,  quite  overcome. 
57 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"You  are  Je*rome  Morel,  her  father?"  added  the 
magistrate,  addressing  the  lapidary. 

Rodolph  had  opened  the  door  of  Rigolette's  apartment. 

"  Yes?  sir;  but—" 

"  Go  in  there  with  your  daughter." 

And  the  magistrate  pointed  to  Rigolette's  chamber, 
into  which  Rodolph  had  already  entered. 

Reassured  by  his  preserver,  the  lapidary  and  Louise, 
astonished  and  uneasy,  did  as  the  commissary  desired 
them. 

The  commissary  shut  the  door,  and  said  with  much 
feeling  to  Morel : 

"  I  know  that  you  are  honest  and  unfortunate,  and  it 
is,  therefore,  with  regret  that  I  tell  you  that  I  am  here 
in  the  name  of  the  law  to  apprehend  your  daughter." 

"All  is  discovered,  —  I  am  lost!"  cried  Louise,  in 
agony,  and  throwing  herself  into  her  father's  arms. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  What  do  you  say  ?  "  inquired 
Morel,  stupefied.  "  You  are  mad  !  What  do  you  mean 
by  lost  ?  Apprehend  you  !  Why  apprehend  you  ?  Who 
has  come  to  apprehend  you  ?" 

"I,  and  in  the  name  of  the  law;"  and  the  commis- 
sary showed  his  scarf. 

"  Oh,  wretched,  wretched  girl ! "  exclaimed  Louise, 
falling  on  her  knees. 

"  What !  in  the  name  of  the  law  ? "  said  the  artisan, 
whose  reason,  severely  shaken  by  this  fresh  blow,  began 
to  totter.  "  Why  apprehend  my  daughter  in  the  name 
of  the  law  ?  I  will  answer  for  Louise,  I  will,  —  this  my 
child,  my  good  child,  ain't  you,  Louise  ?  What !  appre- 
hend you,  when  our  good  angel  has  restored  you  to  us  to 
console  us  for  the  death  of  our  poor,  dear  little  AdSle  ? 
Come,  come,  this  can't  be.  And  then,  to  speak  respect- 
fully, M.  le  Commissaire,  they  apprehend  none  but  the 
bad,  you  know  ;  and  my  Louise  is  not  bad.  So  you  see, 
my  dear,  the  good  gentleman  is  mistaken.  My  name 
is  Morel,  but  there  are  other  Morels  ;  you  are  Louise,  but 
58 


THE  ARREST. 


there  are  other  Louises ;  so  you  see,  M.  le  Commissaire, 
there  is  a  mistake,  certainly  some  mistake  ! " 

"  Unhappily  there  is  no  mistake.  Louise  Morel,  take 
leave  of  your  father !  " 

"  What !  are  you  going  to  take  my  daughter  away  ?  " 
exclaimed  the  workman,  furious  with  grief,  and  advanc- 
ing towards  the  magistrate  with  a  menacing  air. 

Rodolph  seized  the  lapidary  by  the  arm,  and  said  to 
him  : 

"  Be  calm,  and  hope  for  the  best ;  your  daughter  will 
be  restored  to  you ;  her  innocence  must  be  proved ;  she 
cannot  be  guilty." 

"  Guilty  of  what  ?  She  is  not  guilty  of  anything.  I 
will  put  my  hand  in  the  fire  if  —  "  Then,  remembering 
the  gold  which  Louise  had  brought  to  pay  the  bill  with, 
Morel  cried,  "  But  the  money  —  that  money  you  had  this 
morning,  Louise  !  "  And  he  gave  his  daughter  a  terrible 
look. 

Louise  understood  it. 

"  I  rob  ! "  she  exclaimed ;  and  her  cheeks  suffused 
with  generous  indignation,  her  tone  and  gesture,  reas- 
sured her  father. 

"  I  knew  it  well  enough  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  see, 
M.  le  Commissaire,  she  denies  it ;  and  I  swear  to  you, 
that  she  never  told  me  a  lie  in  her  life  ;  and  every- 
body that  knows  her  will  say  the  same  thing  as  I  do. 
She  lie  !  Oh,  no,  she  is  too  proud  to  do  that !  And,  then, 
the  bill  has  been  paid  by  our  benefactor.  The  gold  she 
does  not  wish  to  keep,  but  will  return  it  to  the  person 
who  lent  it  to  her,  desiring  him  not  to  tell  any  one ; 
won't  you,  Louise  ?  " 

"  Your  daughter  is  not  accused  of  theft,"  said  the 
magistrate. 

"  Well,  then,  what  is  the  charge  against  her  ?  I,  her 
father,  swear  to  you  that  she  is  innocent  of  whatever 
crime  they  may  accuse  her  of,  and  I  never  told  a  lie  in 
my  life  either." 

59 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


«  Why  should  you  know  what  she  is  charged  with  ? " 
said  Rodolph,  moved  by  his  distress.  "  Louise's  inno- 
cence will  be  proved  ;  the  person  who  takes  so  great  an 
interest  in  you  will  protect  your  daughter.  Come,  come  ! 
Courage,  courage  !  This  time  Providence  will  not  forsake 
you.  Embrace  your  daughter,  and  you  will  soon  see  her 
again." 

"  M.  le  Commissaire,"  cried  Morel,  not  attending  to 
Rodolph,  "  you  are  going  to  deprive  a  father  of  his 
daughter  without  even  naming  the  crime  of  which  she 
is  accused  !  Let  me  know  all !  Louise,  why  don't  you 
speak  ? " 

"  Your  daughter  is  accused  of  child-murder,"  said  the 
magistrate. 

"I  —  I  —  I  —  child-mur  —  I  don't  —  you  —  " 

And  Morel,  aghast,  stammered  incoherently. 

"  Your  daughter  is  accused  of  having  killed  her  child," 
said  the  commissary,  deeply  touched  at  this  scene  ;  "  but 
it  is  not  yet  proved  that  she  has  committed  this  crime." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  have  not,  sir !  I  have  not ! "  exclaimed 
Louise,  energetically,  and  rising ;  "  I  swear  to  you  that 
it  was  dead.  It  never  breathed,  —  it  was  cold.  I  lost 
my  senses,  —  this  is  my  crime.  But  kill  my  child  !  Oh, 
never,  never !  " 

"  Your  child,  abandoned  girl !  "  cried  Morel,  raising 
his  hands  towards  Louise,  as  if  he  would  annihilate  her 
by  this  gesture  and  imprecation. 

"  Pardon,  father,  pardon  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

After  a  moment's  fearful  silence,  Morel  resumed,  with 
a  calm  that  was  even  more  frightful : 

"  M.  le  Commissaire,  take  away  that  creature ;  she  is 
not  my  child  !  " 

The  lapidary  turned  to  leave  the  room ;  but  Louise 
threw  herself  at  his  knees,  around  which  she  clung  with 
both  arms ;  and,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  distracted 
and  supplicating,  she  exclaimed : 

"  Father,  hear  me  !    Only  hear  me  ! " 

00 


THE  ARREST. 


"  M.  le  Commissaire,  away  with  her,  I  beseech  you !  I 
leave  her  to  you,"  said  the  lapidary,  struggling  to  free 
himself  from  Louise's  embrace. 

"  Listen  to  her,"  said  Rodolph,  holding  him ;  "  do  not 
be  so  pitiless." 

"  To  her !  To  her !  "  repeated  Morel,  lifting  his  two 
hands  to  his  forehead,  "to  a  dishonoured  wretch!  A 
wanton !   Oh,  a  wanton ! " 

"  But,  if  she  were  dishonoured  through  her  efforts  to 
save  you  ?  "  said  Rodolph  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

These  words  made  a  sudden  and  painful  impression 
on  Morel,  and  he  cast  his  eyes  on  his  weeping  child  still 
on  her  knees  before  him ;  then,  with  a  searching  look, 
impossible  to  describe,  he  cried  in  a  hollow  voice, 
clenching  his  teeth  with  rage  : 

"The  notary?" 

An  answer  came  to  Louise's  lips.  She  was  about  to 
speak,  but  paused,  —  no  doubt  a  reflection,  —  and,  bend- 
ing down  her  head,  remained  silent. 

"  No,  no ;  he  sought  to  imprison  me  this  morning ! " 
continued  Morel,  with  a  violent  burst.  "  Can  it  be  he  ? 
Ah,  so  much  the  better,  so  much  the  better !  She  has 
not  even  an  excuse  for  her  crime ;  she  never  thought 
of  me  in  her  dishonour,  and  I  may  curse  her  without 
remorse." 

"  No,  no;  do  not  curse  me,  my  father !  I  will  tell  you 
all,  —  to  you  alone,  and  you  will  see  —  you  will  see 
whether  or  not  I  deserve  your  forgiveness." 

"  For  pity's  sake,  hear  her ! "  said  Rodolph  to  him. 

"  What  will  she  tell  me,  —  her  infamy  ?  That  will 
soon  be  public,  and  I  can  wait  till  then." 

"  Sir,"  said  Louise,  addressing  the  magistrate,  "  for 
pity's  sake,  leave  me  alone  with  my  father,  that  I  may 
say  a  few  words  to  him  before  I  leave  him,  perhaps  for 
ever ;  and  before  you,  also,  our  benefactor,  I  will  speak ; 
but  only  before  you  and  my  father." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  the  magistrate. 

61 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


"  Will  you  be  pitiless,  and  refuse  this  last  consolation 
to  your  child  ?  "  asked  Rodolph  of  Morel.  "  If  you  think 
you  owe  me  any  gratitude  for  the  kindness  which  I  have 
been  enabled  to  show  you,  consent  to  your  daughter's 
entreaties." 

After  a  moment's  sad  and   angry  silence,  Morel 
replied  : 
"  I  will." 

"  But  where  shall  we  go  ! "  inquired  Rodolph ;  "  your 
family  are  in  the  other  room." 

"  Where  shall  we  go,"  exclaimed  the  lapidary,  with  a 
bitter  irony,  "  where  shall  we  go  ?  Up  above,  —  up  above, 
into  the  garret,  by  the  side  of  the  body  of  my  dead 
daughter;  that  spot  will  well  suit  a  confession,  will  it 
not  ?  Come  along,  come,  and  we  will  see  if  Louise  will 
dare  to  tell  a  lie  in  the  presence  of  her  sister's  corpse. 
Come  !   Come  along ! " 

And  Morel  went  out  hastily  with  a  wild  air,  and 
turning  his  face  from  Louise. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  commissary  to  Rodolph,  in  an  under- 
tone, "  I  beg  you  for  this  poor  man's  sake  not  to  protract 
this  conversation.  You  were  right  when  you  said  his 
reason  was  touched  ;  just  now  his  look  was  that  of  a 
madman." 

"  Alas,  sir,  I  am  equally  fearful  with  yourself  of  some 
fresh  and  terrible  disaster !  I  will  abridge  as  much  as 
I  can  this  most  painful  farewell." 

And  Rodolph  rejoined  the  lapidary  and  his  daughter. 

However  strange  and  painful  Morel's  determination 
might  appear,  it  was  really  the  only  thing  that,  under 
the  circumstances,  could  be  done.  The  magistrate 
consented  to  await  the  issue  of  this  conversation  in 
Rigolette's  chamber ;  the  Morel  family  were  occupying 
Rodolph's  apartment,  and  there  was  only  the  garret  at 
liberty ;  and  it  was  into  this  horrid  retreat  that  Louise, 
her  father,  and  Rodolph  betook  themselves.  Sad  and 
affecting  sight ! 

62 


THE  ARREST. 


In  the  middle  of  the  attic  which  we  have  already 
described,  there  lay,  stretched  on  the  idiot's  mattress, 
the  body  of  the  little  girl  who  had  died  in  the  morning, 
now  covered  by  a  ragged  cloth.  The  unusual  and  clear 
light,  reflected  through  the  narrow  skylight,  threw  the 
figures  of  the  three  actors  in  this  scene  into  bold  relief. 
Rodolph,  standing  iip,  was  leaning  with  his  back  against 
the  wall,  deeply  moved.  Morel,  seated  at  the  edge  of 
his  working-bench,  with  his  head  bent,  his  hands  hanging 
listless  by  his  sides,  whilst  his  gaze,  fixed  and  fierce, 
rested  on,  and  did  not  quit,  the  mattress  on  which  the 
remains  of  his  poor  little  Ad£le  were  deposited.  At  this 
spectacle,  the  anger  and  indignation  of  the  lapidary  sub- 
sided, and  were  changed  to  inexpressible  bitterness ;  his 
energy  left  him,  and  he  was  utterly  prostrated  beneath 
this  fresh  blow.  Louise,  who  was  ghastly  pale,  felt  her 
strength  forsake  her.  The  revelation  she  was  about  to 
make  terrified  her.  Still  she  ventured,  tremblingly,  to 
take  her  father's  hand,  —  that  miserable  and  shrivelled 
hand,  withered  and  wasted  by  excess  of  toil.  The  lapi- 
dary did  not  withdraw  it,  and  then  his  daughter,  sobbing 
as  if  her  heart  would  burst,  covered  it  with  kisses,  and 
felt  it  slightly  pressed  against  her  lips.  Morel's  wrath 
had  ended,  and  then  his  tears,  long  repressed,  flowed 
freely  and  bitterly. 

"  Oh,  father,  if  you  only  knew  !  "  exclaimed  Louise ; 
"  if  you  only  knew  how  much  I  am  to  be  pitied ! " 

"  Oh,  Louise,  this,  this  will  be  the  heaviest  bitter  in 
my  cup  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  —  all  my  life  long," 
replied  the  lapidary,  weeping  terribly.  "  You,  you  in 
prison,  —  in  the  same  bench  with  criminals ;  you  so 
proud  when  you  had  a  right  to  be  proud !  No,"  he 
resumed  in  a  fresh  burst  of  grief  and  despair,  "  no ;  I 
would  rather  have  seen  you  in  your  shroud  beside  your 
poor  little  sister !  " 

"  And  I,  I  would  sooner  be  there  ! "  replied  Louise. 

"  Be  silent,  unhappy  girl,  you  pain  me.  I  was  wrong 
63 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


to  say  so ;  I  have  been  too  harsh.  Come,  speak ;  but  in 
the  name  of  Heaven,  do  not  lie.  However  frightful  the 
truth  may  be,  yet  tell  it  me  all ;  let  me  learn  it  from 
your  lips,  and  it  will  be  less  cruel.  Speak,  for,  alas! 
our  moments  are  counted,  they  are  waiting  for  you  down 
below.    Ah,  just  Heaven,  what  a  sad,  sad  parting ! " 

"  My  father,  I  will  tell  you  all,  —  everything,"  replied 
Louise,  taking  courage ;  "  but  promise  me  —  and  our  kind 
benefactor  must  promise  me  also  —  not  to  repeat  this  to 
any  person,  —  to  any  person.  If  he  knew  that  I  had 
told !  —  oh,"  and  she  shuddered  as  she  spoke,  "  you 
would  be  destroyed,  destroyed  as  I  am ;  for  you  know 
not  the  power  and  ferocity  of  this  man." 

«  What  man?" 

"  My  master ! " 

«  The  notary  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Louise  in  a  whisper,  and  looking  around 
her  as  if  she  feared  to  be  overheard. 

"  Take  courage,"  said  Rodolph  ;  "  no  matter  how  cruel 
and  powerful  this  man  may  be,  we  will  defeat  him  ! 
Besides,  if  I  reveal  what  you  are  about  to  tell  us,  it 
would  only  be  in  the  interest  of  yourself  or  your  father." 

"And  me  too,  Louise,  if  I  speak,  it  would  be  in 
endeavouring  to  save  you.  But  what  has  this  villain 
done?" 

"  This  is  not  all,"  said  Louise,  after  a  moment's 
reflection ;  "  in  this  recital  there  will  be  a  person 
implicated  who  has  rendered  me  a  great  service,  who 
has  shown  the  utmost  kindness  to  my  father  and  family ; 
this  person  was  in  the  employ  of  M.  Ferrand  when  I 
entered  his  service,  and  he  made  me  take  an  oath  not  to 
disclose  his  name." 

Rodolph,  believing  that  she  referred  to  Germain,  said 
to  Louise : 

"  If  you  mean  Frangois  Germain,  make  your  mind 
tranquil,  his  secret  shall  be  kept  by  your  father  and 
myself." 

64 


THE  ARREST. 


Louise  looked  at  Rodolph  with  surprise. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ? "  said  she. 

"  What !  was  the  good,  excellent  young  man,  who 
lived  here  for  three  months,  employed  at  the  notary's 
when  you  went  to  his  service  ?  "  said  Morel.  "  The  first 
time  you  met  him  here,  you  appeared  as  if  you  had 
never  seen  him  before." 

"  It  was  agreed  between  us,  father ;  he  had  serious 
reasons  why  he  lid  not  wish  it  known  that  he  was 
working  at  M.  errand's.  It  was  I  who  told  him  of 
the  room  to  let  on  the  fourth  story  here,  knowing  that 
he  would  be  a  good  neighbour  for  you." 

"  But,"  inquired  Rodolph,  "  who,  then,  placed  your 
daughter  at  the  notary's  ?  " 

"  During  the  illness  of  my  wife,  I  said  to  Madame 
Burette  —  the  woman  who  advanced  money  on  pledges, 
who  lived  in  this  house  —  that  Louise  wished  to  get  into 
service  in  order  to  assist  us.  Madame  Burette  knew  the 
notary's  housekeeper,  and  gave  me  a  letter  to  her,  in 
which  she  recommended  Louise  as  a  very  good  girl. 
Cursed  letter !  it  was  the  cause  of  all  our  misfortune. 
This  was  the  way,  sir,  that  my  daughter  got  into  the 
notary's  service." 

"  Although  I  know  some  of  the  causes  which  excited 
M.  Ferrand's  hatred  against  your  father,"  said  Rodolph 
to  Louise,  "  I  beg  you  to  tell  me  as  shortly  as  possible 
what  passed  between  you  and  the  notary  after  your 
entering  into  his  service  ;  it  may,  perhaps,  be  useful  for 
your  defence." 

"  When  I  first  went  into  M.  Ferrand's  house,"  said 
Louise,  "  I  had  nothing  to  complain  of  with  respect  to 
him.  I  had  a  great  deal  to  do,  and  the  housekeeper 
often  scolded  me,  and  the  house  was  very  dull ;  but  I 
endured  everything  very  patiently.  Service  is  service, 
and,  perhaps,  elsewhere  I  should  have  other  disagree- 
ables. M.  Ferrand  was  a  very  stern-looking  person ;  he 
went  to  mass,  and  frequently  had  priests  in  his  house. 
65 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


I  did  not  at  all  distrust  him  ;  for  at  first  he  hardly  ever 
looked  at  me,  spoke  short  and  cross,  especially  when 
there  were  any  strangers.  Except  the  porter  who  lived 
at  the  entrance,  in  the  same  part  of  the  house  as  the 
office  is  in,  I  was  the  only  servant,  with  Madame 
SeYaphin,  the  housekeeper.  The  pavilion  that  we 
occupied  was  isolated  between  the  court  and  the  gar- 
den. My  bedroom  was  high  up.  I  was  often  afraid, 
being,  as  I  was,  always  alone,  either  in  the  kitchen, 
which  is  underground,  or  in  my  bedroom.  One  day  I 
had  worked  very  late  mending  some  things  that  were 
required  in  a  hurry,  and  then  I  was  going  to  bed,  when 
I  heard  footsteps  moving  quietly  in  the  little  passage  at 
the  end  of  which  my  room  was  situated ;  some  one 
stopped  at  my  door.  At  first  I  supposed  it  was  the 
housekeeper ;  but,  as  no  one  entered,  I  began  to  be 
alarmed.  I  dared  not  move,  but  I  listened ;  however, 
I  heard  no  one ;  yet  I  was  sure  that  there  was  some  one 
behind  my  door.  I  asked  twice  who  was  there,  but  no 
one  answered ;  I  then  pushed  my  chest  of  drawers  against 
the  door,  which  had  neither  lock  nor  bolt.  I  still  listened, 
but  nothing  stirred  ;  so  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  which 
seemed  very  long  to  me,  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed,  and 
the  night  passed  quietly.  The  next  morning  I  asked 
the  housekeeper's  leave  to  have  a  bolt  put  on  my  door, 
which  had  no  fastening,  telling  her  of  my  fright  on  the 
previous  night,  and  she  told  me  I  had  been  dreaming, 
and  that,  if  I  wanted  a  bolt,  I  must  ask  M.  Ferrand 
for  it.  When  I  asked  him,  he  shrugged  up  his  shoulders, 
and  said  I  was  crazy ;  so  I  did  not  dare  say  any  more 
about  it.  Some  time  after  this,  the  misfortune  about 
the  diamond  happened.  My  father  in  his  despair  did 
not  know  what  to  do.  I  told  Madame  SeVaphin  of  his 
distress,  and  she  replied ;  4  Monsieur  is  so  charitable, 
perhaps  he  will  do  something  for  your  father.'  The 
same  afternoon,  when  I  was  waiting  at  table,  M.  Ferrand 
said  to  me,  suddenly, '  Your  father  is  in  want  of  thir- 


THE  ARREST. 


teen  hundred  francs ;  go  and  tell  him  to  come  to  my 
office  this  evening,  and  he  shall  have  the  money.'  At 
this  mark  of  kindness  I  burst  into  tears,  and  did  not 
know  how  to  thank  him,  when  he  said,  with  his  usual 
bluntness,  '  Yery  good,  very  good ;  oh,  what  I  do  is 
nothing  ! '  The  same  evening,  after  my  work,  I  came  to 
my  father  to  tell  him  the  good  news ;  the  next  day  —  " 
"  I  had  the  thirteen  hundred  francs,  giving  him  my 
acceptance  in  blank  at  three  months'  date,"  said  Morel. 
"  I  did  like  Louise,  and  wept  with  gratitude,  called  this 
man  my  benefactor.  Oh,  what  a  wretch  must  he  be  thus 
to  destroy  the  gratitude  and  veneration  I  entertained  for 
him!" 

"  This  precaution  of  making  you  give  him  a  blank 
acceptance,  at  a  date  falling  due  so  soon  that  you  could  not 
meet  it,  must  have  raised  your  suspicion  ?  "  said  Rodolph. 

"  No,  sir,  I  only  thought  the  notary  took  it  for  security, 
that  was  all ;  besides,  he  told  me  that  I  need  not  think 
about  repaying  this  sum  in  less  than  two  years ;  but  that, 
every  three  months,  the  bill  should  be  renewed  for  the 
sake  of  greater  regularity.  It  was,  however,  duly  pre- 
sented here  on  the  day  it  became  due,  but,  as  you  may 
suppose,  was  not  paid.  The  usual  course  of  law  was  fol- 
lowed up,  and  judgment  was  obtained  against  me  in  the 
name  of  a  third  party.  All  this  I  was  desired  not  to 
feel  any  uneasiness  respecting,  as  it  had  been  caused  by 
an  error  on  the  part  of  the  officer  in  whose  hands  the 
bill  had  been  placed." 

"  His  motive  is  very  evident,"  said  Rodolph ;  "  he 
wished  to  have  you  entirely  in  his  power." 

"  Alas,  sir,  it  was  from  the  very  day  in  which  he 
obtained  judgment  that  he  commenced !  But,  go  on, 
Louise,  go  on.  I  scarcely  know  where  I  am.  My  head 
seems  giddy  and  bewildered,  and  at  times  my  memory 
entirely  fails  me.  I  fear  my  senses  are  leaving  me,  and 
that  I  shall  become  mad.  Oh,  this  is  too  much  —  too 
hard  to  bear!" 

67 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Rodolph  having  succeeded  in  tranquillising  the  lapi- 
dary, Louise  thus  proceeded : 

"  With  a  view  to  prove  my  gratitude  to  M.  Ferrand 
for  all  his  kindness  towards  my  family,  I  redoubled  my 
endeavours  to  serve  him  well  and  faithfully.  From  that 
time  the  housekeeper  appeared  to  take  an  utter  aversion 
to  me,  and  to  embrace  every  opportunity  of  rendering 
me  uncomfortable,  continually  exposing  me  to  anger 
by  withholding  from  me  the  various  orders  given  by 
M.  Ferrand.  All  this  made  me  extremely  miserable,  and 
I  would  gladly  have  sought  another  place;  but  the 
knowledge  of  my  father's  pecuniary  obligation  to  my 
master  prevented  my  following  my  inclinations. 

"  The  money  had  now  been  lent  about  three  months, 
and,  though  M.  Ferrand  still  continued  harsh  and  unkind 
to  me  in  the  presence  of  Madame  Se'raphin,  he  began 
casting  looks  of  a  peculiar  and  embarrassing  description 
at  me  whenever  he  could  do  so  unobserved,  and  would 
smile  and  seem  amused  when  he  perceived  the  confusion 
it  occasioned  me." 

"  Take  notice,  I  beg,  sir,  that  it  was  at  this  very  time 
the  necessary  legal  proceedings,  for  enabling  him  at  any 
moment  to  deprive  me  of  my  liberty,  were  going  on." 

"  One  day,"  said  Louise,  in  continuation,  "  the  house- 
keeper went  out  directly  after  Sinner,  contrary  to  her 
usual  custom ;  the  clerks,  none  of  whom  lived  in  the 
house,  were  dismissed  from  further  duty  for  the  day, 
and  retired  to  their  respective  homes ;  the  porter  was 
sent  out  on  a  message,  leaving  M.  Ferrand  and  myself 
alone  in  the  house.  I  was  doing  some  needlework 
Madame  Se'raphin  had  given  me,  and  by  her  orders 
was  sitting  in  a  small  antechamber,  from  whence  I 
could  hear  if  I  was  wanted.  After  some  time  the 
bell  of  my  master's  bedroom  rang ;  I  went  there  imme- 
diately, and  upon  entering  found  him  standing  before 
the  fire.  As  I  approached  he  turned  around  suddenly 
and  caught  me  in  his  arms.  Alarm  and  surprise  at  first 
68 


THE  ARREST. 


deprived  me  of  power  to  move ;  but,  spite  of  his  great 
strength,  I  at  last  struggled  so  successfully,  that  I 
managed  to  free  myself  from  his  grasp,  and,  running 
back  with  all  speed  to  the  room  I  had  just  quitted,  I 
hastily  shut  the  door,  and  held  it  with  all  my  force. 
Unfortunately,  the  key  was  on  the  other  side." 
*  "  You  hear,  sir,  —  you  hear,"  said  Morel  to  Rodolph, 

"  the  manner  in  which  this  generous  benefactor  behaved 
to  the  daughter  of  the  man  he  affected  to  serve ! " 

"At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes,"  continued  Louise, 
"the  door  yielded  to  the  efforts  of  M.  Ferrand.  For- 
tunately, the  lamp  by  which  I  had  been  working  was 
within  my  reach,  and  I  precipitately  extinguished  it. 
The  antechamber  was  at  some  distance  from  his  bed- 
chamber, and  we  were,  therefore,  left  in  utter  darkness. 
At  first  he  called  me  by  name ;  but,  finding  that  I  did 
not  reply,  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  rage 
and  passion, '  If  you  try  to  escape  from  me,  your  father 
shall  go  to  prison  for  the  thirteen  hundred  francs  he 
owes,  and  is  unable  to  pay.'  I  besought  him  to  have 
pity  on  me,  promised  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  serve 
him  faithfully,  and  with  gratitude  for  all  his  goodness 
to  my  family,  but  declared  that  no  consideration  on 
earth  should  induce  me  to  disgrace  myself  or  those  I 
belonged  to." 

"  There  spoke  my  Louise,"  said  Morel,  "  or,  rather,  as 
she  would  have  spoken  in  her  days  of  proud  innocence. 
How,  then,  if  such  were  your  sentiments  —  But  go  on, 
go  on." 

"  I  was  still  concealed  by  the  darkness,  which  I 
trusted  would  preserve  me,  when  I  heard  the  door 
closed  which  led  from  the  antechamber,  and  which 
my  master  had  contrived  to  find  by  groping  along 
the  wall.  Thus,  having  me  wholly  in  his  power,  he 
returned  to  his  chamber  for  a  light,  with  which  he 
quickly  returned,  and  then  commenced  a  fresh  attack, 
the  particulars  of  "which,  my  dearest  father,  I  will  not 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


venture  to  describe ;  suffice  it,  that  promises,  threats, 
violence,  all  were  tried ;  but  anger,  fear,  and  despair 
armed  me  with  fresh  strength,  and,  while  I  continually 
eluded  his  grasp,  and  fled  for  safety  from  room  to  room, 
his  rage  at  my  determined  resistance  knew  no  bounds. 
In  his  fury  he  even  struck  me  with  such  frenzied  violence 
as  to  leave  my  features  streaming  with  blood." 

"  You  hear !  you  hear !  "  exclaimed  the  lapidary, 
raising  his  clasped  hands  towards  heaven,  "  and  are 
crimes  like  this  to  go  unpunished  ?  Shall  such  a 
monster  escape  and  not  pay  a  heavy  penalty  for  his 
wickedness  ? " 

"  Trust  me,"  said  Rodolph,  who  seemed  profoundly 
meditating  on  what  he  heard,  "  trust  me,  this  man's 
time  and  hour  will  come.  But  continue  your  painful 
narration,  my  poor  girl,  and  shrink  not  from  telling  us 
even  its  blackest  details." 

"  The  struggle  between  us  had  now  gone  on  so  long 
that  my  strength  began  to  fail  me.  I  was  conscious  of 
my  own  inability  to  resist  further,  when  the  porter,  who 
had  returned  home,  rang  the  bell  twice,  —  the  usual  sig- 
nal when  letters  arrived  and  required  to  be  fetched  from 
his  hands.  Fearing  that,  if  I  did  not  obey  the  summons, 
the  porter  would  bring  the  letters  himself,  M.  Ferrand 
said, '  Go ;  utter  but  one  word,  and  to-morrow  sees  your 
father  in  prison.  If  you  endeavour  to  quit  this  house, 
the  consequences  will  fall  on  him ;  and,  as  for  you,  I 
will  take  care  no  one  shall  take  you  into  their  house, 
for,  without  exactly  affirming  it,  I  will  contrive  to  make 
every  one  think  you  have  robbed  me.  Then,  should  any 
person  refer  to  me  for  your  character,  I  shall  speak  of 
you  as  an  idle,  unworthy  girl  whom  I  could  keep  no 
longer.' 

"  The  following  day  after  this  scene,  spite  of  the 
menaces  of  my  master,  I  ran  home  to  complain  to  my 
father  of  the  unkind  usage  I  received,  without  daring, 
however,  to  tell  him  all.    His  first  desire  was  for  me  to 
70 


THE  ARREST. 


quit  the  house  of  M.  Ferrand  without  delay.  But,  then, 
a  prison  would  close  upon  my  poor  parent;  added  to 
which,  my  small  earnings  had  become  indispensably 
necessary  to  our  family  since  the  illness  of  my  mother, 
and  the  bad  character  promised  me  by  M.  Ferrand 
might  possibly  have  prevented  me  from  finding  another 
service  for  a  very  long  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Morel,  with  gloomy  bitterness,  "  we  were 
selfish  and  cowardly  enough  to  allow  our  poor  child  to 
return  to  that  accursed  roof.  Oh,  I  spoke  truly  when  I 
said, '  Want,  want,  what  mean,  what  degrading  acts  do 
you  not  force  us  to  commit ! '  " 

"  Alas,  dear  father,  did  you  not  try  by  every  possible 
means  to  procure  these  thirteen  hundred  francs  ?  And, 
that  being  impossible,  there  was  nothing  left  but  to 
submit  ourselves  to  our  fate." 

"  Go  on,  go  on ;  your  parents  have  been  your  execu- 
tioners, and  we  are  far  more  guilty  than  yourself  of  all 
the  fearful  consequences  !  "  exclaimed  the  lapidary,  con- 
cealing his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  When  I  next  saw  my  master,"  said  Louise,  "  he  had 
resumed  the  harsh  and  severe  manner  with  which  he  or- 
dinarily treated  me.  He  made  not  the  slightest  reference 
to  the  scene  I  have  just  related,  while  his  housekeeper 
persisted  in  her  accustomed  tormenting  and  unkind  be- 
haviour towards  me,  giving  me  scarcely  sufficient  food 
to  maintain  my  strength,  and  even  locking  the  bread  up 
so  that  I  could  not  help  myself  to  a  morsel ;  she  would 
even  carry  her  cruelty  so  far  as  to  wilfully  spoil  and 
damage  the  morsels  left  by  herself  and  M.  Ferrand  for 
my  repasts,  I  always  taking  my  meals  after  my  master 
and  the  housekeeper,  who  invariably  sat  down  to  table  to- 
gether. My  nights  were  as  painful  as  my  days.  I  durst 
not  indulge  in  sleep,  lest  I  should  be  surprised  by  the  en- 
trance of  the  notary.  I  had  no  means  of  securing  my 
chamber  door,  and  the  chest  of  drawers  with  which  I 
used  to  fasten  myself  in  had  been  taken  away,  leaving 
71 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


me  only  a  small  table,  a  chair,  and  my  box.  With  these 
articles  I  barricaded  the  door  as  well  as  I  could,  and 
merely  lay  down  in  my  clothes,  ready  to  start  up  at  the 
least  noise.  Some  time  elapsed,  however,  without  my 
having  any  further  alarm  as  regarded  M.  Ferrand,  who 
seemed  to  have  altogether  forgotten  me,  and  seldom  be- 
stowed even  a  look  on  me.  By  degrees  my  fears  died 
away,  and  I  became  almost  persuaded  I  had  nothing 
more  to  dread  from  the  persecutions  of  my  master.  One 
Sunday  I  had  permission  to  visit  my  home,  and  with 
extreme  delight  hastened  to  announce  the  happy  change 
that  had  taken  place  to  my  parents.  Oh,  how  we  all 
rejoiced  to  think  so !  Up  to  that  moment,  my  dear 
father,  you  know  all  that  occurred.  What  I  have  still 
to  tell  you,"  murmured  Louise,  as  her  voice  sunk  into 
an  inarticulate  whisper,  "  is  so  dreadful  that  I  have  never 
dared  reveal  it." 

"  I  was  sure,  ah,  too  sure,"  cried  Morel,  with  a  wild- 
ness  of  manner  and  rapidity  of  utterance  which  startled 
and  alarmed  Rodolph,  "  that  you  were  hiding  something 
from  me.  Too  plainly  did  I  perceive,  by  your  pale  and 
altered  countenance,  that  your  mind  was  burthened  with 
some  heavy  secret.  Many  a  time  have  I  said  so  to  your 
mother ;  but  she,  poor  thing !  would  not  listen  to  me, 
and  even  blamed  me  for  making  myself  unnecessarily 
miserable.  So  you  see,  that  weakly,  and  selfish  to  escape 
from  trouble  ourselves,  we  allowed  our  poor,  helpless 
child  to  remain  under  this  monster's  roof.  And  to  what 
have  we  reduced  our  poor  girl  ?  Why,  to  be  classed  with 
the  felons  and  criminals  of  a  prison!  See,  see  what 
comes  of  parents  sacrificing  their  children.  And,  then, 
too,  be  it  remembered  —  after  all  —  who  knows  ?  True, 
we  are  poor  —  very  poor,  and  may  be  guilty  —  yes,  yes, 
quite  right,  guilty  of  throwing  our  daughter  into  shame 
and  disgrace.  But,  then,  see  how  wretched  and  distressed 
we  were  !  Besides,  such  as  we  —  "  Then,  as  if  suddenly 
striving  to  collect  his  bewildered  ideas,  Morel  struck  his 
72 


THE  ARREST. 


forehead,  exclaiming,  "  Alas !  I  know  not  what  I  say. 
My  brain  bums  and  my  senses  seem  deserting  me.  A 
sort  of  bewilderment  seems  to  come  over  me  as  though  I 
were  stupefied  with  drink.  Alas,  alas  !  I  am  going  mad ! " 
So  saying,  the  unhappy  man  buried  his  face  between  his 
hands. 

Unwilling  that  Louise  should  perceive  the  extent  of 
his  apprehensions  as  regarded  the  agitated  state  of  the 
lapidary,  and  how  much  alarm  he  felt  at  his  wild,  inco- 
herent language,  Rodolph  gravely  replied  : 

"  You  are  unjust,  Morel ;  it  was  not  for  herself  alone, 
but  for  her  aged  and  afflicted  parent,  her  children,  and 
you,  that  your  poor  wife  dreaded  the  consequences  of 
Louise's  quitting  the  notary's  house.  Accuse  no  one  ; 
but  let  all  your  just  anger,  your  bitter  curses,  fall  on  the 
head  that  alone  deserves  it,  —  on  that  hypocritical  mon- 
ster who  offered  a  weak  and  helpless  girl  the  alternative 
of  infamy  or  ruin ;  perhaps  destruction ;  perhaps  death 
to  those  she  most  tenderly  loved,  —  on  the  fiend  who 
could  thus  abuse  the  power  he  held,  thus  prey  upon  the 
tenderest,  holiest  feelings  oi  a  loving  daughter,  thus 
shamelessly  outrage  every  moral  and  religious  duty. 
But  patience ;  as  I  before  remarked,  Providence  fre- 
quently reserves  for  crimes  so  black  as  this  a  fearful  and 
astounding  retribution." 

As  Rodolph  uttered  these  words,  he  spoke  with  a  tone 
so  expressive  of  his  own  conviction  of  the  certain  ven- 
geance of  Heaven,  that  Louise  gazed  at  her  preserver 
with  a  surprise  not  unmingied  with  fear. 

"  Go  on,  my  poor  girl,"  resumed  Rodolph,  addressing- 
Louise  ;  "  conceal  nothing  from  us  :  it  is  more  important 
than  you  can  be  aware  that  you  should  relate  the  most 
minute  details  of  your  sad  story." 

Thus  encouraged,  Louise  proceeded  : 

"  I  began,  therefore,  as  I  told  you,  to  regain  my  tran- 
quillity, when  one  evening  both  M.  Ferrand  and  his 
housekeeper  went  out.  They  did  not  dine  at  home.  I 
73 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


was  quite  alone  in  the  house.  As  usual,  my  allowance  of 
bread,  wine,  and  water  was  left  for  me,  and  every  place 
carefully  locked.  When  1  had  finished  my  work,  I  took 
the  food  placed  for  me,  and,  having  made  my  meal,  I 
retired  to  my  bedroom,  thinking  it  less  dull  than  remain- 
ing down-stairs  by  myself.  I  took  care  to  leave  a  light 
in  the  hall  for  my  master,  as  when  he  dined  out  no  one 
ever  sat  up  for  him.  Once  in  my  chamber,  I  seated 
myself  and  commenced  my  sewing ;  but,  contrary  to  my 
usual  custom,  I  found  the  greatest  difficulty  in  keeping 
myself  awake.  A  heavy  drowsiness  seemed  to  steal 
over,  and  a  weight  like  lead  seemed  to  press  on  my  eye- 
lids. Alas,  dear  father ! "  cried  Louise,  interrupting 
herself  as  though  frightened  at  her  own  recital,  "  I  feel 
sure  you  will  not  credit  what  I  am  about  to  say,  you  will 
believe  I  am  uttering  falsehoods ;  and  yet,  here,  over  the 
lifeless  body  of  my  poor  little  sister,  I  swear  to  the  truth 
of  each  word  I  speak." 

"  Explain  yourself,  my  good  girl,"  said  Rodolph. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  answered  Louise,  "you  ask  me  to  do 
that  1  have  been  vainly  trying  to  accomplish  during  the 
last  seven  months.  In  vain  have  I  racked  my  brains  to 
endeavour  to  account  for  the  events  of  that  fatal  night. 
Sometimes  I  have  almost  grown  distracted  while  trying 
to  clear  up  this  fearful  and  mysterious  occurrence." 

"  Merciful  Heaven !  "  exclaimed  the  lapidary,  suddenly 
rousing  from  one  of  those  fits  of  almost  apathetic  stupor 
into  which  he  had  occasionally  fallen  from  the  very  com- 
mencement of  this  narration,  "  what  dreadful  thing  is 
she  going  to  tell  us  ?  " 

"  This  lethargic  feeling,"  continued  Louise,  "  so  com- 
pletely overpowered  me,  that,  unable  any  longer  to  re- 
sist it,  I  at  length,  contrary  to  my  usual  custom,  fell 
asleep  upon  my  chair.  This  is  all  I  recollect  before  — 
before  —  Oh,  forgive  me,  father,  forgive  me !  indeed, 
indeed,  I  am  not  guilty  ;  yet —  " 

"  I  believe  you  —  I  believe  you  ;  but  proceed." 
74 


THE  ARREST. 


"  I  know  not  how  long  I  slept ;  but  when  I  awoke  it 
was  to  shame  and  dishonour,  for  I  found  M.  Ferrand 
beside  me." 

"  'Tis  false !  'tis  false !  "  screamed  the  lapidary,  in  a 
tone  of  frenzied  violence.  "  Confess  that  you  yielded 
to  violence  or  to  the '  dread  of  seeing  me  dragged  to 
prison,  but  do  not  seek  to  impose  on  me  by  falsehoods 
such  as  this." 

"  Father !  father !  I  call  Heaven  to  witness  I  am  telling 
you  the  truth  only." 

"  I  tell  you  'tis  a  base  falsehood.  Why  should  the 
notary  have  wished  to  throw  me  in  prison,  since  you  had 
freely  yielded  to  his  wishes  ? " 

"  Yielded  !  Oh,  no,  dear  father,  I  would  have  died 
first !  So  deep  was  my  sleep  that  it  resembled  that  of 
death.  It  may  seem  to  you  both  extraordinary  and 
impossible,  and  I  assure  you  that,  up  to  the  present 
hour,  I  myself  have  never  been  able  to  understand  it  or 
account  for  it  —  " 

"  But  I  can  do  so  at  once,"  said  Rodolph,  interrupting 
Louise.  "  This  crime  alone  was  wanting  to  complete 
the  heavy  calendar  of  that  man's  offences.  Accuse  not 
your  daughter,  Morel,  of  seeking  to  deceive  you.  Tell 
me,  Louise,  when  you  made  your  meal,  before  ascending 
to  your  chamber,  did  you  not  remark  something  peculiar 
in  the  taste  of  the  wine  given  you  to  drink  ?  Try  and 
recollect  this  circumstance." 

After  reflecting  a  short  time,  Louise  replied  : 

"  Yes,  I  do  indeed  remember,"  answered  she,  "  that 
the  wine  and  water  left  for  me  as  usual  had  a  somewhat 
bitter  taste ;  but  I  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  it, 
because  the  housekeeper  would  frequently,  when  spite- 
fully inclined,  amuse  herself  with  throwing  salt  or 
pepper  into  what  I  drank." 

"  But,  on  the  day  you  were  describing,  your  wine  had 
a  bitter  taste  ? " 

"It  had,  sir,  but  not  sufficiently  so  to  prevent  my 
75 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


drinking  it ;  and  I  attributed  it  to  the  wine  being 
turned." 

Morel,  with  fixed  eye  and  haggard  look,  listened  both 
to  the  questions  of  Rodolph  and  the  answers  of  Louise 
without  appearing  to  understand  to  what  they  tended. 

"  And  before  falling  asleep  on  your  chair,  did  not  your 
head  seem  unusually  heavy,  and  your  limbs  weary  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  I  felt  a  fullness  and  throbbing  in  my 
temples,  an  icy  coldness  seemed  to  fill  my  veins,  and  a 
feeling  of  unusual  discomfort  oppressed  me." 

"  Wretch,  villainous  wretch !  "  exclaimed  Rodolph. 
"  Are  you  aware,  Morel,  what  this  man  made  your  poor 
child  take  in  her  wine  ? " 

The  artisan  gazed  at  Rodolph  without  replying  to  his 
question. 

"  His  accomplice,  the  housekeeper,  had  mingled  in 
Louise's  drink  some  sort  of  stupefying  drug,  most  prob- 
ably opium,  by  which  means  both  the  bodily  and  mental 
powers  of  your  unfortunate  daughter  were  completely 
paralysed  for  several  hours ;  and  when  she  awoke  from 
this  lethargic  state  it  was  to  find  herself  dishonoured 
and  disgraced." 

"  Ah,  now,"  exclaimed  Louise,  "  my  misfortune  is 
explained.  You  see,  dear  father,  I  am  less  guilty  than 
you  thought  me.  Father  !  dear,  dear  father !  look  upon 
me,  bestow  one  little  look  of  pity  and  of  pardon  on  your 
poor  Louise ! " 

But  the  glance  of  the  lapidary  was  fixed  and  vacant ; 
his  honest  mind  could  not  comprehend  the  idea  of  so 
black,  so  monstrous  a  crime  as  that  ascribed  to  the 
notary,  and  he  gazed  with  blank  wonder  at  the  words  he 
heard,  as  though  quite  unable  to  affix  any  meaning  to 
them.  And  besides,  during  the  latter  part  of  the  dis- 
course, his  intellect  became  evidently  shaken,  his  ideas 
became  a  shapeless,  confused  mass  of  wandering  recol- 
lections ;  a  mere  chaotic  mass  of  griefs  and  sorrows 
possessed  his  brain,  and  he  sank  into  a  state  of  mental 
76 


THE  ARREST. 


prostration,  which  is  to  intellect  what  darkness  is  to  the 
sight,  —  the  formidable  symptoms  of  a  weakened  brain. 
After  a  pause  of  some  length,  Morel  replied,  in  a  low, 
hasty  tone : 

"Yes,  yes;  it  is  bad,  very,  very  bad;  cannot  be 
worse ! "  and  then  relapsed  into  his  former  apathy ; 
while  Rodolph,  watching  him  with  pained  attention, 
perceived  that  the  energy,  even  of  indignation,  was 
becoming  exhausted  within  the  mind  of  the  miserable 
father,  in  the  same  manner  as  excess  of  grief  will  fre- 
quently dry  up  the  relief  of  tears.  Anxious  to  put  an 
end  as  quickly  as  possible  to  the  present  trying  scene, 
Rodolph  said  to  Louise  : 

"  Proceed,  my  poor  child,  and  let  us  have  the 
remainder  of  this  tissue  of  horrors." 

"  Alas,  sir !  what  you  have  heard  is  as  nothing  to 
that  which  follows.  When  I  perceived  M.  Ferrand  by 
my  side  I  uttered  a  cry  of  terror.  My  first  impulse  was 
to  rush  from  the  room,  but  M.  Ferrand  forcibly  detained 
me ;  and  I  still  felt  so  weak,  so  stupefied  with  the  medi- 
cine you  speak  of  as  having  been  mingled  in  my  drink, 
that  I  was  powerless  as  an  infant.  '  Why  do  you  wish 
to  escape  from  me  now  ? '  inquired  M.  Ferrand,  with  an 
air  of  surprise  which  filled  me  with  dread.  '  What  fresh 
caprice  is  this  ?  Am  I  not  here  by  your  own  free  will 
and  consent  ? '  4  Oh,  sir ! '  exclaimed  I,  4  this  is  most 
shameful  and  unworthy,  to  take  advantage  of  my  sleep 
to  work  my  ruin ;  but  my  father  shall  know  all ! '  Here 
my  master  interrupted  me  by  bursting  into  loud  laughter. 
'  Upon  my  word,  young  lady,'  said  he,  *  you  are  very 
amusing.  So  you  are  going  to  say  that  I  availed  myself 
of  your  being  asleep  to  effect  your  undoing.  But  who 
do  you  suppose  will  credit  such  a  falsehood  ?  It  is  now 
four  in  the  morning,  and  since  ten  o'clock  last  night  I 
have  been  here.  You  must  have  slept  long  and  soundly 
not  to  have  discovered  my  presence  sooner.  Come,  come, 
no  more  attempts  at  shyness,  but  confess  the  truth,  that 
77 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


I  came  hither  with  your  perfect  good-will  and  consent. 
You  must  be  less  capricious  or  we  shall  not  keep  good 
friends,  I  fear.  Your  father  is  in  my  power.  You  have 
no  longer  any  cause  to  fly  me.  Be  obedient  to  my  wishes 
and  we  shall  do  very  well  together ;  but  resist  me,  and 
the  consequences  shall  fall  heavily  on  you,  and  your 
family  likewise.'  4 1  will  tell  my  dear  father  of  your  con- 
duct,' sobbed  I ;  '  he  will  avenge  me,  and  the  laws  will 
punish  you.'  M.  Ferrand  looked  at  me  as  though  at  a 
loss  to  comprehend  me.  4  Why,  you  have  lost  your 
senses,'  cried  he  ;  4  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  can  you  tell 
your  father  ?  That  you  thought  proper  to  invite  me  to 
your  bedroom  ?  But,  invent  any  tale  you  please,  you 
will  soon  find  what  sort  of  a  reception  it  will  meet  with. 
Why,  your  father  will  not  look  at  you,  much  more 
believe  you.'  4  But  you  know,'  cried  I,  4  you  well  know, 
sir,  I  gave  no  permission  for  your  being  here.  You  are 
well  aware  you  entered  my  chamber  without  my  knowl- 
edge, and  are  now  here  against  my  will.'  4  Against  your 
will !  And  is  it  possible  you  have  the  effrontery  to  utter 
such  a  falsehood,  to  dare  insinuate  that  I  have  employed 
force  to  gain  my  ends  ?  Do  you  wish  to  be  convinced  of 
the  folly  of  such  an  imputation  ?  Why,  by  my  orders, 
Germain,  my  cashier,  returned  here  last  night  at  ten 
o'clock  to  complete  some  very  important  papers,  and  % 
until  one  o'clock  this  morning  he  was  writing  in  the 
chamber  directly  under  yours ;  would  he  not  then  have 
been  sure  to  have  heard  the  slightest  sound,  much  less 
the  repetition  of  such  a  struggle  as  we  had  together  a 
little  while  ago,  my  saucy  little  beauty,  when  you  were 
not  quite  in  as  complying  a  humour  as  I  found  you  in 
last  evening  ?  Germain  must  have  heard  you  during 
the  stillness  of  the  night  had  you  but  called  for  assist- 
ance. Ask  him,  when  you  see  him,  whether  any  such 
sound  occurred ;  he  will  tell  you  no,  and  that  he  worked 
on  uninterruptedly  during  the  very  hours  you  are  accus- 
ing me  of  forcibly  entering  your  bedchamber.'  " 
78 


THE  ARREST. 


"  Ah ! "  cried  Rodolph,  "  the  villain  had  evidently 
taken  every  precaution  to  prevent  detection." 

"  He  had,  indeed.  As  for  me,  sir,"  continued  Louise, 
"  I  was  so  thunderstruck  with  horror  at  these  assertions 
of  M.  Ferrand,  that  I  knew  not  what  to  reply.  Ignorant 
of  my  having  taken  anything  to  induce  sleep,  I  felt 
wholly  unable  to  account  for  my  having  slept  so  un- 
usually heavy  and  long.  Appearances  were  strongly 
against  me ;  what  would  it  avail  for  me  to  publish  the 
dreadful  story  ?  No  one  would  believe  me  innocent. 
How,  indeed,  could  I  hope  or  expect  they  should,  when 
even  to  myself  the  events  of  that  fatal  night  continued 
an  impenetrable  mystery  ?  " 

Even  Rodolph  remained  speechless  with  horror  at 
this  fearful  revelation  of  the  diabolical  hypocrisy  of  M. 
Ferrand. 

"  Then,"  said  he,  after  a  pause  of  some  minutes,  "  you 
never  ventured  to  inform  your  father  of  the  infamous 
treatment  you  had  received  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  she,  "  for  I  dreaded  lest  he  might 
suppose  I  had  willingly  listened  to  the  persuasions  of  my 
master ;  and  I  also  feared  that,  in  the  first  burst  of  his 
indignation,  my  poor  father  would  forget  that  not  only 
his  own  freedom,  but  the  very  existence  of  his  family, 
depended  upon  the  pleasure  of  M.  Ferrand." 

"  And  probably,"  continued  Rodolph,  desirous  if  pos- 
sible to  save  Louise  the  painful  confession,  "  probably, 
yielding  to  constraint,  and  the  dread  of  endangering  the 
safety  of  your  father  and  family  by  a  refusal,  you  con- 
tinued to  be  the  victim  of  this  monster's  brutality  ? " 

Louise  spoke  not,  but  her  cast-down  eyes,  and  the  deep 
blushes  which  dyed  her  pale  cheek,  answered  most  pain- 
fully in  the  affirmative. 

"  And  was  his  conduct  afterwards  less  barbarous  and 
unfeeling  than  before  ? " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  And  when,  by  chance,  my  master 
had  the  cure*  and  vicaire  of  Bonne  Nouvelle  to  dine  with 
79 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


him,  the  better  to  avert  all  suspicion  from  himself,  he 
would  scold  me  severely  in  their  presence,  and  even  beg 
M.  le  Cure*  to  admonish  me,  assuring  him  that  some  day 
or  other  I  should  fall  into  ruin ;  that  I  was  a  girl  of  free 
and  bold  manners,  and  that  he  could  not  make  me  keep 
my  distance  with  the  young  men  in  his  office;  that  I 
was  an  idle,  unworthy  person,  whom  he  only  kept  out  of 
charity  and  pity  for  my  father,  who  was  an  honest  man 
with  a  large  family,  whom  he  had  greatly  served  and 
obliged.  With  the  exception  of  that  part  of  the  state- 
ment which  referred  to  my  father,  the  rest  was  utterly 
false.  I  never,  by  any  chance,  saw  the  clerks  belonging 
to  his  office,  as  it  was  situated  in  a  building  entirely 
detached  from  the  house." 

"  And,  when  alone  with  M.  Ferrand,  how  did  he 
account  for  his  treatment  of  you  before  the  cure"  ? " 

"  He  assured  me  he  was  only  jesting.  However,  the 
cure*  believed  him,  and  reprehended  me  very  severely, 
saying  that  a  person  must  be  vicious  indeed  to  go  astray 
in  so  godly  a  household,  where  I  had  none  but  the  most 
holy  and  religious  examples  before  my  eyes.  I  knew  not 
what  answer  to  make  to  this  address ;  I  felt  my  cheeks  burn 
and  my  eyes  involuntarily  cast  down.  All  these  indica- 
tions of  shame  and  confusion  were  construed  to  my  dis- 
advantage, until,  at  length,  sick  at  heart,  and  weary,  and 
disgusted,  my  very  life  seemed  a  burden  to  me,  and  many 
times  I  felt  tempted  to  destroy  myself ;  but  the  thoughts 
of  my  parents,  my  poor  brothers  and  sisters,  that  my 
small  earnings  helped  to  maintain,  deterred  me  from 
ending  my  sorrows  by  death.  I  therefore  resigned  my- 
self to  my  wretched  fate,  finding  one  consolation,  amidst 
the  degradation  of  my  lot,  in  the  thought  that,  at  least, 
I  had  preserved  my  father  from  the  horrors  of  a  prison. 
But  a  fresh  misfortune  overwhelmed  me ;  I  became 
enceinte.  I  now  felt  myself  lost  indeed.  A  secret  pre- 
sentiment assured  me  that,  when  M.  Ferrand  became 
aware  of  a  circumstance  which  ought,  at  least,  to  have 
80 


THE  ARREST. 


rendered  him  less  harsh  and  cruel,  he  would  treat  me 
even  more  unkindly  than  before.  I  was  still,  however, 
far  from  expecting  what  afterwards  occurred." 

At  this  moment,  Morel,  recovering  from  his  temporary 
abstraction,  gazed  around  him,  as  though  trying  to  col- 
lect his  ideas,  then,  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  forehead, 
looked  at  his  daughter  with  an  inquiring  glance,  and 
said : 

"  I  fancy  I  have  been  ill,  or  something  is  wrong  with 
my  head  —  grief  —  fatigue  —  tell  me,  my  child  —  what 
were  you  saying  just  now  ?  I  seem  almost  unable  to 
recollect." 

"  When,"  continued  Louise,  unheeding  her  father's 
look,  "  when  M.  Ferrand  discovered  that  I  was  likely  to 
become  a  mother  —  " 

Here  the  lapidary  waved  his  hand  in  despairing  agony, 
but  Rodolph  calmed  him  by  an  imploring  look. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Morel,  "  let  me  hear  all ;  'tis  fit  and 
right  the  tale  should  be  told.  Go  on,  go  on,  my  girl,  and 
I  will  listen  from  beginning  to  end." 

Louise  -went  on.  "  I  besought  M.  Ferrand  to  tell  me 
by  what  means  I  should  conceal  my  shame,  and  the  con- 
sequence of  a  crime  of  which  he  was  the  author.  Alas, 
dear  father,  I  can  scarcely  hope  or  believe  you  will  credit 
what  I  am  about  to  tell  you." 

«  What  did  he  say  ?  Speak." 

"  Interrupting  me  with  much  indignation  and  well- 
feigned  surprise,  he  affected  not  to  understand  my  mean- 
ing, and  even  inquired  whether  I  had  not  lost  my  senses. 
Terrified,  I  exclaimed,  '  Oh,  sir,  what  is  to  become  of 
me  ?  Alas,  if  you  have  no  pity  on  me,  pity  at  least  the 
poor  infant  that  must  soon  see  the  light ! ' 

" <  What  a  lost,  depraved  character ! '  cried  M.  Ferrand, 
raising  his  clasped  hands  towards  heaven.  'Horrible, 
indeed !  Why,  you  poor,  wretched  girl,  is  it  possible 
that  you  have  the  audacity  to  accuse  me  of  disgracing 
myself  by  any  illicit  acquaintance  with  a  person  of  your 
81 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


infamous  description?  Can  it  be  that  you  have  the 
hardihood  to  lay  the  fruits  of  your  immoral  conduct  and 
gross  irregularity  at  my  door,  —  I,  who  have  repeated 
a  hundred  times,  in  the  presence  of  respectable  wit- 
nesses, that  you  would  come  to  ruin  some  day,  vile  prof- 
ligate that  you  are?  Quit  my  house  this  instant,  or  I 
will  drive  you  out ! ' " 

Rodolph  and  Morel  were  struck  with  horror;  a 
system  of  wickedness  like  this  seemed  to  freeze  their 
blood. 

"  By  Heaven !  "  said  Rodolph,  "  this  surpasses  any 
horrors  that  imagination  could  have  conceived." 

Morel  did  not  speak,  but  his  eyes  expanded  fearfully, 
whilst  a  convulsive  spasm  contracted  his  features.  He 
quitted  the  stool  on  which  he  was  sitting,  opened  a 
drawer  suddenly,  and,  taking  out  a  long  and  very  sharp 
file,  fixed  in  a  wooden  handle,  he  rushed  towards  the 
door.  Rodolph,  guessing  his  thoughts,  seized  his  arm, 
and  stopped  his  progress. 

"  Morel,  where  are  you  going  ?  You  will  do  a  mis- 
chief, unhappy  man ! " 

"  Take  care,"  exclaimed  the  infuriated  artisan,  strug- 
gling, "  or  I  shall  commit  two  crimes  instead  of  one !  " 
and  the  madman  threatened  Rodolph. 

"  Father,  it  is  our  benefactor !  "  exclaimed  Louise. 

"He  is  jesting  at  us ;  he  wants  to  save  the  notary," 
replied  Morel,  quite  crazed,  and  struggling  with  Rodolph. 
At  the  end  of  a  second,  the  latter  disarmed  him,  care- 
fully opened  the  door,  and  threw  the  file  out  on  the 
staircase.  Louise  ran  to  the  lapidary,  embraced  him, 
and  said : 

"  Father,  it  is  our  benefactor  !  You  have  raised  your 
hand  against  him,  —  recover  yourself." 

These  words  recalled  Morel  to  himself,  and  hiding 
his  face  in  his  hands,  he  fell  mutely  on  his  knees  before 
Rodolph. 

"  Rise,  rise,  unhappy  father,"  said  Rodolph,  in  accents 

82 


THE  ARREST. 


of  great  kindness ;  "  be  patient,  be  patient,  I  understand 
your  wrath  and  share  your  hatred ;  but,  in  the  name  of 
your  vengeance,  do  not  compromise  your  daughter !  " 

"  Louise  !  —  my  daughter !  "  cried  the  lapidary,  rising, 
"  but  what  can  justice — the  law —  do  against  that?  We 
are  but  poor  wretches,  and  were  we  to  accuse  this  rich, 
powerful,  and  respected  man,  we  should  be  laughed  to 
scorn.  Ha!  ha!  ha!"  and  he  laughed  convulsively, 
"  and  they  would  be  right.  Where  would  be  our 
proofs  ?  —  yes,  our  proofs  ?  No  one  would  believe  us. 
So,  I  tell  you' — I  tell  you,"  he  added,  with  increased 
fury,  "  I  tell  you  that  I  have  no  confidence  but  in  the 
impartiality  of  my  knife." 

"  Silence,  Morel !  your  grief  distracts  you,"  said 
Rodolph  to  him  sorrowfully ;  "  let  your  daughter 
speak ;  the  moments  are  precious ;  the  magistrate 
waits ;  I  must  know  all,  —  all,  I  tell  you ;  go  on,  my 
child." 

Morel  fell  back  on  the  stool,  overwhelmed  with  his 
anguish. 

"  It  is  useless,  sir,"  continued  Louise,  "  to  tell  you  of 
my  tears,  my  prayers.  I  was  thunderstruck.  This  took 
place  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  in  M.  Ferrand's 
private  room.  The  curate  was  coming  to  breakfast 
With  him,  and  entered  at  the  moment  when  my  master 
was  assailing  me  with  reproach  and  accusations.  He 
appeared  much  put  out  at  the  sight  of  the  priest." 

"  What  occurred  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  soon  recovered  himself,  and  exclaimed,  call- 
him  by  name,  '  Well,  Monsieur  l'Abbe,  I  said  so,  I  said 
this  unhappy  girl  would  be  undone.  She  is  ruined, 
ruined  for  ever ;  she  has  just  confessed  to  me  her  fault 
and  her  shame,  and  entreated  me  to  save  her.  Only 
think  that,  from  commiseration,  I  have  received  such  a 
wanton  into  my  house  ! '  i  How,'  said  the  abbe*  to  me 
with  indignation,  '  in  spite  of  the  excellent  counsels 
which  your  master  has  given  you  a  hundred  times  in 
83 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


my  presence,  have  you  really  sunk  so  low  ?  Oh,  it  is 
unpardonable !  My  friend,  my  friend,  after  the  kindness 
you  have  evinced  towards  this  wretched  girl  and  her 
family,  any  pity  would  be  weakness.  Be  inexorable,' 
said  the  abbe",  the  dupe,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  of 
M.  Ferrand's  hypocrisy." 

"  And  you  did  not  unmask  the  scoundrel  on  the 
spot  ? "  ask  Rodolph. 

"  Ah,  no !  monsieur,  I  was  terrified,  my  head  was  in 
a  whirl,  I  did  not  dare,  I  could  not  pronounce  a  word, 
—  yet  I  was  anxious  to  speak  and  defend  myself.  '  But 
sir  —  'I  cried.  '  Not  one  word  more,  unworthy  creature,' 
said  M.  Ferrand,  interrupting  me.  f  You  heard  M. 
l'Abbe\  Pity  would  be  weakness.  In  an  hour  you 
leave  my  house ! '  Then,  without  allowing  me  time  to 
reply,  he  led  the  abbe"  into  another  room.  After  the 
departure  of  M.  Ferrand,"  resumed  Louise,  "  I  was 
almost  bereft  of  my  senses  for  a  moment.  I  was 
driven  from  his  house,  and  unable  to  find  any  home 
elsewhere,  in  consequence  of  my  condition,  and  the 
bad  character  which  my  master  would  give  with  me. 
I  felt  sure,  too,  that  in  his  rage  he  would  send  my 
father  to  prison ;  and  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  I 
went  to  my  room,  and  there  I  wept  bitterly.  At  the 
end  of  two  hours  M.  Ferrand  appeared.  '  Is  your  bundle 
made  up?'  said  he.  'Pardon,'  I  exclaimed,  falling  at 
his  feet, '  do  not  turn  me  from  your  house  in  my  present 
condition.  What  will  become  of  me  ?  I  have  no  place 
to  turn  to.'  '  So  much  the  better ;  this  is  the  way  that 
God  punishes  loose  behaviour  and  falsehood.'  '  Dare  you 
say  that  I  tell  falsehood?'  I  asked,  indignantly, ' dare 
you  say  that  it  is  not  you  who  have  caused  my  ruin  ? ' 
'  Leave  my  house  this  moment,  you  wretch,  since  you 
persist  in  your  calumnies  ! '  he  replied  in  a  terrible 
voice ;  '  and  to  punish  you  I  will  to-morrow  send  your 
father  to  the  gaol.'  4  Well,  no,  no  ! '  said  I,  terrified ;  '  I 
will  not  again  accuse  you,  sir ;  that  I  promise  you ;  but 
84 


THE  ARREST. 


do  not  drive  me  away  from  the  house.  Have  pity  on 
my  father.  The  little  I  earn  here  helps  to  support  my 
family.  Keep  me  here ;  I  will  say  nothing.  I  will 
endeavour  to  hide  every  thing;  and  when  I  can  no 
longer  do  so,  oh,  then,  but  not  till  then,  send  me  away ! ' 
After  fresh  entreaties  on  my  part,  M.  Ferrand  consented 
to  keep  me  with  him;  and  I  considered  that  a  great 
favour  in  my  wretched  condition.  During  the  time  that 
followed  this  cruel  scene,  I  was  most  wretched,  and 
miserably  treated ;  only  sometimes  M.  Germain,  whom  I 
seldom  saw,  kindly  asked  me  what  made  me  unhappy ; 
but  shame  prevented  me  from  confessing  anything  to 
him." 

"Was  not  that  about  the  time  when  he  came  to 
reside  here?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  was  looking  out  for  an  apartment  near 
the  Rue  du  Temple  or  de  PArsenal.  There  was  one  to 
let  here,  and  I  told  him  of  that  one  which  you  now 
occupy,  sir,  and  it  suited  him  exactly.  When  he  quitted 
it,  about  two  months  ago,  he  begged  me  not  to  mention 
his  new  address  here,  but  that  they  knew  it  at  M. 
Ferrand's." 

The  necessity  under  which  Germain  was  to  conceal 
himself  from  those  who  were  trying  to  find  him  explained 
all  these  precautions  to  Rodolph. 

"  And  it  never  occurred  to  you  to  make  a  confidant  of 
Germain  ?"  he  said  to  Louise. 

"  No,  sir,  he  was  also  a  dupe  to  the  hypocrisy  of  M. 
Ferrand ;  he  called  him  harsh  and  exacting ;  but  he 
thought  him  the  honestest  man  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  When  Germain  was  lodging  here,  did  he  never  hear 
your  father  at  times  accuse  the  notary  of  desiring  to 
seduce  you  ? " 

"  My  father  never  expressed  his  fears  before  strangers ; 
and  besides,  at  this  period,  I  deceived  his  uneasiness,  and 
comforted  him  by  the  assurances  that  M.  Ferrand  no 
longer  thought  of  me.  Alas !  my  poor  father  will  now 
85 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


forgive  me  those  falsehoods  ?  I  only  employed  them  to 
tranquillise  your  mind,  father  dear,  that  was  all." 

Morel  made  no  reply  ;  he  only  leaned  his  forehead  on 
his  two  arms,  crossed  on  his  working-board,  and  sobbed 
bitterly. 

Rodolph  made  a  sign  to  Louise  not  to  address  herself 
to  her  father,  and  she  continued  thus : 

"  I  led  from  this  time  a  life  of  tears  and  perpetual 
anguish.  By  using  every  precaution,  I  had  contrived  to 
conceal  my  condition  from  all  eyes  ;  but  I  could  not  hope 
thus  to  hide  it  during  the  last  two  months.  The  future 
became  more  and  more  alarming  to  me,  as  M.  Ferrand 
had  declared  that  he  would  not  keep  me  any  longer  in 
the  house ;  and  therefore  I  should  be  deprived  of  the 
small  resources  which  assisted  our  family  to  live. 
Cursed  and  driven  from  my  home  by  my  father,  for, 
after  the  falsehoods  I  had  told  him  to  set  his  mind  at 
ease,  he  would  believe  me  the  accomplice,  and  not  the 
victim  of  M.  Ferrand,  what  was  to  become  of  me  ?  where 
could  I  find  refuge  or  place  myself  in  my  condition  ?  I 
then  had  a  criminal  idea ;  but,  fortunately,  I  recoiled 
from  putting  it  into  execution.  I  confess  this  to  you, 
sir,  because  I  will  not  keep  any  thing  concealed,  not  even 
that  which  may  tell  against  myself;  and  thus  I  may 
show  you  the  extremities  to  which  I  was  reduced  by  the 
cruelty  of  M.  Ferrand.  If  I  had  given  way  to  such  a 
thought,  would  he  not  have  been  the  accomplice  of  my 
crime  ?  " 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Louise  resumed  with  great 
effort,  and  in  a  trembling  voice : 

"  I  had  heard  say  by  the  porteress  that  a  quack  doctor 
lived  in  the  house,  —  and,  —  " 

She  could  not  finish. 

Rodolph  recollected  that,  at 'his  first  interview  with 
Madame  Pipelet,  he  had  received  from  the  postman,  in 
her  absence,  a  letter  written  on  coarse  paper,  in  a  feigned 
hand,  and  on  which  he  had  remarked  the  traces  of  tears. 

86 


THE  ARREST. 


"  And  you  wrote  to  him,  unhappy  girl,  three  days 
since  ?  You  wept  over  your  letter ;  and  the  handwriting 
was  disguised." 

Louise  looked  at  Rodolph  in  great  consternation. 

"  How  did  you  know  that,  sir  f 

"  Do  not  alarm  yourself ;  I  was  alone  in  Madame 
Pipelet's  lodge  when  they  brought  in  the  letter ;  and  I 
remarked  it  quite  accidentally." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  was  mine.  In  this  letter,  which  bore  no 
signature,  I  wrote  to  M.  Bradamanti,  saying  that,  as  I 
did  not  dare  to  go  to  him,  I  would  beg  him  to  be  in  the 
evening  near  the  Chateau  d'Eau.  I  had  lost  my  senses. 
I  sought  fearful  advice  from  him  ;  and  I  left  my  master's 
house  with  the  intention  of  following  them  ;  but,  at  the 
end  of  a  minute,  my  reason  returned  to  me,  and  I  saw 
what  a  crime  I  was  about  to  commit.  I  returned  to  the 
house,  and  did  not  attend  the  appointment  I  had  written 
for.  That  evening  an  event  occurred,  the  consequences 
of  which  caused  the  misfortune  which  has  overwhelmed 
me.  M.  Ferrand  thought  I  had  gone  out  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  whilst,  in  reality,  I  had  been  gone  but  a  very 
short  time.  As  I  passed  before  the  small  garden  gate, 
to  my  great  surprise  I  saw  it  half  open.  I  entered  by  it, 
and  took  the  key  into  M.  Ferrand's  private  room,  where 
it  was  usually  kept.  This  apartment  was  next  to  his 
bedroom,  the  most  retired  place  in  the  house  ;  and  it  was 
there  he  had  his  private  meetings  with  clients  and  others, 
transacting  his  every-day  business  in  the  office.  You 
will  see,  sir,  why  I  give  you  these  particulars.  As  I  very 
well  knew  the  ways  of  the  apartments,  after  having 
crossed  the  dining-room,  which  was  lighted  up,  I  entered 
into  the  salon  without  any  candle,  and  then  into  the 
little  closet,  which  was  on  this  side  of  his  sleeping-room. 
The  door  of  this  latter  opened  at  the  moment  when  I  was 
putting  the  key  on  a  table ;  and  the  moment  my  master 
saw  me  by  the  light  of  the  lamp,  which  was  burning  in 
his  chamber,  then  he  suddenly  shut  the  door  on  some 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PAKIS. 


person  whom  I  could  not  see,  and  then,  in  spite  of  the 
darkness,  rushed  towards  me  and,  seizing  me  by  the 
throat  as  if  he  would  strangle  me,  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  in  a  tone  at  once  savage  and  alarmed,  '  What !  lis- 
tening !  —  spying  at  the  door !  What  did  you  hear  ? 
Answer  me,  —  answer  directly,  or  I'll  strangle  you.' 
But,  suddenly  changing  his  idea,  and  not  giving  me  time 
to  say  a  word,  he  drove  me  back  into  the  dining-room ; 
the  office  door  was  open,  and  he  brutally  thrust  me  in 
and  shut  the  door." 

"  And  you  did  not  hear  the  conversation  ? " 

"  Not  a  word,  sir ;  if  I  had  known  that  there  was  any 
one  in  his  room  with  him,  I  should  have  been  careful  not 
to  have  gone  there.  He  even  forbade  Madame  SeVaphin 
from  doing  so." 

"  And,  when  you  left  the  office,  what  did  he  say  to  you  ? " 

"  It  was  the  housekeeper  who  let  me  out,  and  I  did  not 
see  M.  Ferrartd  again  that  night.  His  violence  to  me, 
and  the  fright  I  had  undergone,  made  me  very  ill  indeed. 
The  next  day,  at  the  moment  when  I  went  down-stairs, 
I  met  M.  Ferrand,  and  I  shuddered  when  I  remembered 
his  threats  of  the  night  before  ;  what  then  was  my  sur- 
prise when  he  said  to  me  calmly, '  You  knew  that  I  for- 
bid any  one  to  enter  my  private  room  when  I  have  any 
person  there  ;  but,  for  the  short  time  longer  you  will 
stay  here,  it  is  useless  to  scold  you  any  more.'  And 
then  he  went  into  his  study.  This  mildness  astonished 
me  after  his  violence  of  the  previous  evening.  I  went  on 
with  my  work  as  usual,  and  was  going  to  put  his  bed- 
chamber to  rights.  I  had  suffered  a  great  deal  all  night, 
and  was  weak  and  exhausted.  Whilst  I  was  hanging  up 
some  clothes  in  a  dark  closet  at  the  end  of  the  room 
near  the  bed,  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  painful  giddi- 
ness, and  felt  as  if  I  should  lose  my  senses ;  as  I  fell,  I 
tried  to  support  myself  by  grasping  at  a  large  cloak 
which  hung  against  the  wainscot ;  but  in  my  fall  I  drew 
this  cloak  down  on  me,  and  was  almost  entirely  covered 
88 


THE  ARREST. 


by  it.  When  I  came  to  myself,  the  glass  door  of  the 
above  closet  was  shut.  I  heard  M.  Ferrand's  voice,  —  he 
was  speaking  aloud.  Remembering  the  scene  of  the 
previous  evening,  I  thought  I  should  be  killed  if  I  stirred. 
I  suppose  that,  hidden  by  the  cloak  which  had  fallen  on 
me,  my  master  did  not  perceive  me  when  he  shut  the 
door  of  this  dark  wardrobe.  If  he  found  me,  how  could 
I  account  for,  and  make  him  believe,  this  singular  acci- 
dent ?  I,  therefore,  held  my  breath,  and  in  spite  of  my- 
self, overheard  the  conclusion  of  this  conversation  which, 
no  doubt  had  begun  some  time." 

"  And  who  was  the  person  who  was  talking  with  the 
notary  and  shut  up  in  this  room  with  him?"  inquired 
Rodolph  of  Louise. 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir ;  I  did  not  recognise  the  voice." 

"  And  what  were  they  saying  ? " 

"  No  doubt  they  had  been  conversing  some  time  ;  but 
all  I  heard  was  this  :  '  Nothing  more  easy,'  said  the  un- 
known voice  ;  '  a  fellow  named  Bras  Rouge  has  put  me, 
for  the  affair  I  mentioned  to  you  just  now,  in  connection 
with  a  family  of  "  fresh-water  pirates," 1  established  on  the 
point  of  a  small  islet  near  Asnieres.  They  are  the  great- 
est scoundrels  on  earth ;  the  father  and  grandfather  were 
guillotined ;  two  of  the  sons  were  condemned  to  the  gal- 
leys for  life ;  but  there  are  still  left  a  mother,  three  sons, 
and  two  daughters,  all  as  infamous  as  they  can  possibly 
be.  They  say  that  at  night,  in  order  to  plunder  on  both 
sides  of  the  Seine,  they  sometimes  come  down  in  their 
boats  as  low  as  Bercy.  They  are  ruffians,  who  will  kill 
any  one  for  a  crown-piece ;  but  we  shall  not  want  their 
aid  further  than  their  hospitality  for  your  lady  from  the 
country.  The  Martials  —  that  is  the  name  of  these 
pirates  —  will  pass  in  her  eyes  for  an  honest  family  of 
fishers.  I  will  go,  as  if  from  you,  to  pay  two  or  three 
visits  to  your  young  lady.  I  will  order  her  a  few  com- 
forting draughts ;  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  or  ten  days, 

1  We  shall  hear  more  particulars  of  these  worthies  in  another  chapter. 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


she  will  form  an  acquaintance  with  the  burial-ground  of 
Asni&res.  In  villages,  deaths  are  looked  on  as  nothing 
more  than  a  letter  by  the  post,  whilst  in  Paris  they  are 
a  little  more  curious  in  such  matters.  But  when  do  you 
send  your  young  lady  from  the  provinces  to  the  isle  of 
Asnieres,  for  I  must  give  the  Martials  notice  of  the  part 
they  have  to  play  ? '  '  She  will  arrive  here  to-morrow, 
and  next  day  I  shall  send  her  to  them,'  replied  M. 
Ferrand ;  4  and  I  shall  tell  her  that  Doctor  Vincent  will 
pay  her  a  visit  at  my  request.'  4  Ah,  Vincent  will  do  as 
well  as  any  other  name,'  said  the  voice." 

"  What  new  mystery  of  crime  and  infamy  ? "  said 
Rodolph,  with  increased  astonishment. 

"  New  ?  No,  sir,  you  will  see  that  it  is  in  connection 
with  another  crime  that  you  know  of,"  resumed  Louise, 
who  thus  continued  :  "  I  heard  a  movement  of  chairs,  — 
the  interview  had  ended.  '  I  do  not  ask  the  secret  of 
you/  said  M.  Ferrand,  4  you  behave  to  me  as  I  behave 
to  you.'  '  Thus  we  may  mutually,  serve  without  any 
power  mutually  to  injure  each  other,'  answered  the 
voice.  '  Observe  my  zeal !  I  received  your  letter  at  ten 
o'clock  last  night,  and  here  I  am  this  morning.  Good- 
by,  accomplice ;  do  not  forget  the  isle  of  Asnieres,  the 
fisher  Martial,  and  Doctor  Vincent.  Thanks  to  these 
three  magic  words,  your  country  damsel  has  only  eight 
days  to  look  forward  to.'  4  Wait,'  said  M.  Ferrand, 
4  whilst  I  go  and  undo  the  safety-bolt,  which  I  have 
drawn  to  in  my  closet,  and  let  me  look  out  and  see  that 
there  is  no  one  in  the  antechamber,  in  order  that  you 
may  go  out  by  the  side  path  in  the  garden  by  which 
you  entered.'  M.  Ferrand  went  out  for  a  moment,  and 
then  returned ;  and  I  heard  him  go  away  with  the  person 
whose  voice  I  did  not  know.  You  may  imagine  my  fright, 
sir,  during  this  conversation,  and  my  despair  at  having 
unintentionally  discovered  such  a  secret.  Two  hours  after 
this  conversation,  Madame  SeVaphin  came  to  me  in  my 
room,  whither  I  had  gone,  trembling  all  over,  and  worse 
90 


THE  ARREST. 

than  I  had  been  yet.  <  My  master  is  inquiring  for  you/ 
said  she  tome;  '  you  are  better  off  than  you  deserve  to 
be.  Come,  go  down-stairs.  You  are  very  pale  ;  but  what 
you  are  going  to  hear  will  give  you  a  colour.'  I  followed 
Madame  Seraphin,  and  found  M.  Ferrand  in  his  private 
study.  When  I  saw  him,  I  shuddered  in  spite  of  myself, 
and  yet  he  did  not  look  so  disagreeable  as  usual.  He 
looked  at  me  steadfastly  for  some  time,  as  if  he  would 
read  the  bottom  of  my  thoughts.  I  lowered  my  eyes. 
'You  seem  very  ill?'  he  said.  'Yes,  sir,'  I  replied, 
much  surprised  at  being  thus  addressed.  '  It  is  easily 
accounted  for,'  added  he ;  4  it  is  the  result  of  your  condi- 
tion and  the  efforts  you  make  to  conceal  it ;  but,  in  spite 
of  your  falsehoods,  your  bad  conduct,  and  your  indiscre- 
tion yesterday,'  he  added,  in  a  milder  tone, '  I  feel  pity 
for  you.  A  few  days  more,  and  it  will  be  impossible  to 
conceal  your  situation.  Although  I  have  treated  you 
as  you  deserve  before  the  curate  of  the  parish,  such  an 
event  in  the  eyes. of  the  world  will  be  the  disgrace  of 
a  house  like  mine ;  and,  moreover,  your  family  will 
be  deeply  distressed.  Under  these  circumstances  I  will 
come  to  your  aid.'  '  Ah !  sir,'  I  cried,  '  such  kind  words 
from  you  make  me  forget  everything.'  '  Forget  what  ? ' 
asked  he,  hastily.  '  Nothing,  —  nothing,  —  forgive  me, 
sir ! '  I  replied,  fearful  of  irritating  him,  and  believing 
him  kindly  disposed  towards  me.  '  Then  attend  to  me,' 
said  he ;  '  you  will  go  to  see  your  father  to-day,  and  tell 
him  that  I  am  going  to  send  you  into  the  country  for 
two  or  three  months,  to  take  care  of  a  house  which 
I  have  just  bought.  During  your  absence  I  will  send 
your  wages  to  him.  To-morrow  you  will  leave  Paris. 
I  will  give  you  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Madame  Mar- 
tial, the  mother  of  an  honest  family  of  fishers,  who  live 
near  Asnieres.  You  will  say  you  came  from  the  country 
and  nothing  more.  You  will  learn  hereafter  my  motive 
for  this  introduction,  which  is  for  your  good.  Madame 
Martial  will  treat  you  as  one  of  the  family,  and  a  med- 
91 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


ical  man  of  my  acquaintance,  Dr.  Vincent,  will  give  you 
all  you  require  in  your  situation.  You  see  how  kind  I 
am  to  you ! ' " 

"  What  a  horrible  snare  ! "  exclaimed  Rodolph  ;  "  I  see 
it  all  now.  Believing  that  overnight  you  had  listened 
to  some  secret,  no  doubt  very  important  for  him,  he 
desired  to  get  rid  of  you.  He  had  probably  an  interest 
in  deceiving  his  accomplice  by  describing  you  as  a  female 
from  the  country.  What  must  have  been  your  alarm  at 
this  proposal  ?  " 

"  It  was  like  a  violent  blow ;  it  quite  bereft  me  of 
sense.  I  could  not  reply,  but  looked  at  M.  Ferrand 
aghast ;  my  head  began  to  wander.  I  should,  perhaps, 
have  risked  my  life  by  telling  him  that  I  had  overheard 
his  projects  in  the  morning,  when  fortunately  I  recol- 
lected the  fresh  perils  to  which  such  an  avowal  would 
expose  me.  <  You  do  not  understand  me,  then  ? '  he 
said,  impatiently.  '  Yes,  sir,  —  but,'  I  added,  all  trem- 
bling, '  I  should  prefer  not  going  into  the  country.' 
'  Why  not  ?  You  will  be  taken  every  care  of  where 
I  send  you.'  4  No,  no,  I  will  not  go ;  I  would  rather 
remain  in  Paris,  and  not  go  away  from  my  family ;  I 
would  rather  confess  all  to  them,  and  die  with  them, 
if  it  must  be  so.'  <  You  refuse  me,  then  ? '  said  M. 
Ferrand,  repressing  his  rage,  and  looking  fixedly  at  me. 
<  Why  have  you  so  suddenly  changed  your  mind  ?  No. 
a  minute  ago  you  accepted  my  offer.'  I  saw  that  if  he 
guessed  my  motive  I  was  lost,  so  I  replied  that  I  did  not 
then  think  that  he  desired  me  to  leave  Paris  and  my 
family.  4  But  you  dishonour  your  family,  you  wretched 
girl ! '  he  exclaimed,  and  unable  any  longer  to  restrain 
himself,  he  seized  me  by  the  arms,  and  shook  me  so 
violently  that  I  fell.  <  I  will  give  you  until  the  day  after 
to-morrow,'  he  cried,  '  and  then  you  shall  go  from  here 
to  the  Martials,  or  go  and  inform  your  father  that  I  have 
turned  you  out  of  my  house,  and  will  send  him  to  gaol 
to-morrow.'  He  then  left  me,  stretched  on  the  floor, 
92 


THE  ARREST. 


whence  I  had  not  the  power  to  rise.  Madame  Se*raphin 
had  run  in  when  she  heard  her  master  raise  his  voice 
so  loud,  and  with  her  assistance,  and  staggering  at  every 
step,  I  regained  my  chamber,  where  I  threw  myself  on 
my  bed,  and  remained  until  night,  so  entirely  was  I  pros- 
trated by  all  that  had  happened.  By  the  pains  that  came 
on  about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  felt  assured  that 
I  should  be  prematurely  a  mother." 

"  Why  did  you  not  summon  assistance  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  did  not  dare.  M.  Ferrand  was  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  me,  and  he  would  certainly  have  sent  for  Dr. 
Vincent,  who  would  have  killed  me  at  my  master's 
instead  of  killing  me  at  the  Martials,  or  else  M.  Ferrand 
would  have  stifled  me,  and  said  that  I  had  died  in  my 
confinement.  Alas,  sir,  perhaps  these  were  vain  terrors, 
but  they  came  over  me  at  this  moment  and  caused  my 
suffering;  otherwise  I  would  have  endured  the  shame, 
and  should  never  have  been  accused  of  killing  my  child. 
Instead  of  calling  for  help,  and  for  fear  my  cries  should 
be  heard,  I  stuffed  my  mouth  full  with  the  bedclothes. 
At  length,  after  dreadful  anguish,  alone,  in  the  midst 
of  darkness,  the  child  was  born,  and,  —  dead,  —  I  did  not 
kill  it !  —  indeed,  I  did  not  kill  it,  —  ah,  no  !  In  the 
midst  of  this  fearful  night  I  had  one  moment  of  bitter 
joy,  and  that  was  when  I  pressed  my  child  in  my  arms." 

And  the  voice  of  Louise  was  stifled  with  sobs. 

Morel  had  listened  to  his  daughter's  recital  with  a 
mournful  apathy  and  indifference  which  alarmed  Ro- 
dolph.  However,  seeing  her  burst  into  tears,  the 
lapidary,  who  was  still  leaning  on  his  work-board 
with  his  two  hands  pressed  against  his  temples, 
looked  at  Louise  steadfastly,  and  said : 

"  She  weeps,  —  she  weeps,  —  why  is  she  weeping  ?  " 
Then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "  Ah,  yes,  —  I  know, 
I  know,  —  the  notary,  —  isn't  it  ?  Go  on  my  poor 
Louise,  —  you  are  my  daughter,  —  I  love  you  still, — 
just  now  I  did  not  recognise  you,  —  my  eyes  were  dark- 
93 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


ened  with  my  tears,  —  oh,  my  head,  —  how  badly  it 
aches,  —  my  head,  my  head  !  " 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  guilty,  do  you,  father,  do 
you  ?  " 

«  Oh,  no,  no !  " 

"  It  is  a  terrible  misfortune ;  but  I  was  so  fearful  of 
the  notary." 

"  The  notary  ?    Ah,  yes,  and  well  you  might  be ;  he 
is  so  wicked,  so  very  wicked  !  " 
"  But  you  will  forgive  me  now  ?  " 
"  Yes,  yes." 
«  Really  and  truly  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  ah,  yes  !  Ah  !  I  love  you  the  same  as  ever, 
—  although  I  cannot  —  not  say  —  you  see  — because  — 
oh,  my  head,  my  head  !  " 

Louise  looked  at  Rodolph  in  extreme  alarm. 

"  He  is  suffering  deeply ;  but  let  him  calm  himself. 
Go  on." 

Louise,  after  looking  twice  or  thrice  at  Morel  with 
great  disquietude,  thus  resumed: 

"  I  clasped  my  infant  to  my  breast,  and  was  aston- 
ished at  not  hearing  it  breathe.  I  said  to  myself,  '  The 
breathing  of  a  baby  is  so  faint  that  it  is  difficult  to  hear 
it.'  But  then  it  was  so  cold.  I  had  no  light,  for  they 
never  would  leave  one  with  me.  I  waited  until  the 
dawn  came,  trying  to  keep  it  warm  as  well  as  I  could  ; 
but  it  seemed  to  me  colder  and  colder.  I  said  to  my- 
self then ;  '  It  freezes  so  hard  that  it  must  be  the 
cold  that  chills  it  so.'  At  daybreak  I  carried  my  child 
to  the  window  and  looked  at  it ;  it  was  stiff  and  cold.  I 
placed  my  mouth  to  its  mouth,  to  try  and  feel  its  breath. 
I  put  my  hand  on  its  heart ;  but  it  did  not  beat ;  it  was 
dead." 

And  Louise  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh !  at  this  moment,"  she  continued,  "  something 
passed  within  me  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe. 
I  only  remember  confusedly  what  followed,  —  it  was 
94 


THE  ARREST. 


like  a  dream,  —  it  was  at  once  despair,  terror,  rage, 
and  above  all,  I  was  seized  with  another  fear ;  I  no 
longer  feared  M.  Ferrand  would  strangle  me,  hut  I 
feared  that,  if  they  found  my  child  dead  by  my  side, 
f  I  should  be  accused  of  having  killed  it.  Then  I  had  but 
one  thought,  and  that  was  to  conceal  the  corpse  from 
everybody's  sight ;  and  then  my  dishonour  would  not  be 
known,  and  I  should  no  longer  have  to  dread  my  father's 
anger.  I  should  escape  from  M.  Ferrand's  vengeance, 
because  I  could  now  leave  his  house,  obtain  another 
situation,  and  gain  something  to  help  and  support  my 
family.  Alas !  sir,  such  were  the  reasons  which  induced 
me  not  to  say  any  thing,  but  try  and  hide  my  child's 
remains  from  all  eyes.  I  was  wrong,  I  know ;  but,  in 
the  situation  in  which  I  was,  oppressed  on  all  sides, 
worn  out  by  suffering,  and  almost  mad,  I  did  not  con- 
sider to  what  I  exposed  myself  if  I  should  be  discovered." 

"  What  torture !  what  torture !  "  said  Rodolph  with 
deep  sympathy. 

"  The  day  was  advancing,"  continued  Louise,  "  and  I 
had  but  a  few  moments  before  me  until  the  household 
would  be  stirring.  I  hesitated  no  longer,  but,  wrapping 
up  the  unhappy  babe  as  well  as  I  could,  I  descended  the 
staircase  silently,  and  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden 
to  try  and  make  a  hole  in  the  ground  to  bury  it ;  but  it 
had  frozen  so  hard  in  the  night  that  I  could  not  dig  up 
the  earth.  So  I  concealed  the  body  in  the  bottom  of  a 
sort  of  cellar,  into  which  no  one  entered  during  the 
winter,  and  then  I  covered  it  up  with  an  empty  box 
which  had  held  flowers,  and  returned  to  my  apartment, 
without  any  person  having  seen  me.  Of  all  I  tell  you, 
sir,  I  have  but  a  very  confused  recollection.  Weak  as  I 
was,  it  is  inexplicable  to  me  how  I  had  strength  and 
courage  to  do  all  I  did.  At  nine  o'clock  Madame 
Se'raphin  came  to  inquire  why  I  had  not  risen.  I  told 
her  that  I  was  so  very  ill,  and  prayed  of  her  to  allow  me 
to  remain  in  bed  during  the  day,  and  that  on  the  follow- 
95 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


ing  day  I  should  quit  the  house,  as  M.  Ferrand  had  dis- 
missed me.  At  the  end  of  an  hour's  time,  he  came 
himself.  '  You  are  worse  to-day.  Ah !  that  is  the  con- 
sequence of  your  obstinacy,'  said  he ;  'if  you  had  taken 
advantage  of  my  kind  offer,  you  would  to-day  have  been 
comfortably  settled  with  some  worthy  people,  who  would 
have  taken  every  care  of  you ;  but  I  will  not  be  so  cruel 
as  to  leave  you  without  help  in  your  present  situation ; 
and  this  evening  Doctor  Vincent  shall  come  and  see 
you.'  At  this  threat  I  shuddered ;  but  I  replied  to  M. 
Ferrand  that  I  was  wrong  to  refuse  his  offers  the  even- 
ing before,  and  that  I  would  now  accept  them ;  but  that, 
being  too  ill  to  move  then,  I  could  not  go  until  the  day 
after  the  next  to  the  Martials,  and  that  it  was  useless  to 
send  for  Doctor  Vincent.  I  only  sought  to  gain  time,  for 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  the  house,  and  go  the 
next  day  to  my  father,  whom  I  hoped  to  keep  in  ignorance 
of  all.  Relying  on  my  promise,  M.  Ferrand  was  almost 
kind  to  me,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  recom- 
mended Madame  Seraphin  to  take  care  of  me.  I  passed 
the  day  in  mental  agony,  trembling  every  instant  lest 
the  body  of  my  child  should  be  accidentally  discovered. 
I  was  only  anxious  that  the  frost  should  break  up,  so 
that,  the  ground  not  being  so  hard,  I  might  be  able  to 
dig  it  up.  The  snow  began  to  fall,  and  that  gave  me 
some  hopes.  I  remained  all  day  in  bed,  and  when  the 
night  came,  I  waited  until  every  one  should  be  asleep, 
and  then  I  summoned  strength  enough  to  rise  and  go  to 
the  wood-closet,  where  I  found  a  chopper,  with  which  I 
hoped  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  ground  which  was  covered 
with  snow.  After  immense  trouble  I  succeeded,  and 
then,  taking  the  body,  I  wept  bitterly  over  it,  and 
buried  it  as  well  as  I  could  in  the  little  box  that 
had  held  flowers.  I  did  not  know  the  prayer  for  the 
dead ;  but  I  said  a  Pater  and  an  Ave,  and  prayed  to 
the  good  God  to  receive  it  into  Paradise.  I  thought  my 
courage  would  fail  me  when  I  was  covering  the  mould 


THE  ARREST. 


over  the  sort  of  bier  I  had  made.  A  mother  burying 
her  own  child  !  At  length  I  completed  my  task,  and  ah, 
what  it  cost  me !  I  covered  the  place  all  over  with 
snow,  that  it  might  conceal  every  trace  of  what  I  had 
4  done.  The  moon  had  lighted  me  ;  yet,  when  all  was 
done,  I  could  hardly  resolve  to  go  away.  Poor  little 
innocent ! —  in  the  icy  ground,  —  beneath  the  snow ! 
Although  it  was  dead,  yet  I  still  seemed  to  fear  that  it 
must  feel  the  cold.  At  length  I  returned  to  my  cham- 
ber ;  and  when  I  got  into  bed  I  was  in  a  violent  fever. 
In  the  morning  M.  Ferrand  sent  to  know  how  I  found 
myself.  I  replied  that  I  was  a  little  better,  and  that  I 
felt  sure  I  should  be  strong  enough  to  go  next  day  into 
the  country.  I  remained  the  whole  of  the  day  in  bed, 
hoping  to  acquire  a  little  strength,  and  in  the  evening  I 
arose  and  went  down  into  the  kitchen  to  warm  myself.  I 
was  then  quite  alone,  and  then  went  out  into  the  garden  to 
to  say  a  last  prayer.  As  I  went  up  to  my  room  I  met  M. 
Germain  on  the  landing-place  of  the  study  in  which  he 
wrote  sometimes,  looking  very  pale.  He  said  to  me 
hastily,  placing  a  rouleau  of  money  in  my  hand, '  They 
are  going  to  arrest  your  father  to-morrow  morning  for 
an  over-due  bill  of  thirteen  hundred  francs ;  he  is  unable 
to  pay  it ;  but  here  is  the  money.  As  soon  as  it  is  light, 
run  to  him.  It  was  only  to-day  that  I  found  out  what 
sort  of  a  man  M.  Ferrand  is ;  and  he  is  a  villain.  I 
will  unmask  him.  Above  all,  do  not  say  that  you  have 
the  money  from  me.' 

"  M.  Germain  did  not  even  give  me  time  to  thank 
him,  but  ran  quickly  down-stairs.  This  morning,"  con- 
tinued Louise,  "  before  any  one  had  risen  at  M.  Ferrand's, 
I  came  here  with  the  money  which  M.  Germain  had  given 
me  to  save  my  father ;  but  it  was  not  enough,  and  but 
for  your  generosity,  I  could  not  have  rescued  him  from 
the,  bailiff's  hands.  Probably,  after  I  had  left,  they  went 
into  my  room  and,  having  suspicions,  have  now  sent 
to  arrest  me.  One  last  service,  sir,"  said  Louise,  taking 
97 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


the  rouleau  of  gold  from  her  pocket,  "  will  you  give  back 
this  money  to  M.  Germain ;  I  had  promised  him  not  to 
say  to  any  one  that  he  was  employed  at  M.  Ferrand's ; 
but,  since  you  know  it,  I  have  not  broken  my  confidence. 
Now,  sir,  I  repeat  to  you  before  God,  who  hears  me,  that 
I  have  not  said  a  word  that  is  not  quite  true  ;  I  have  not 
tried  to  hide  my  faults,  and  —  " 

But,  suddenly  interrupting  herself,  Louise  exclaimed 
with  alarm: 

"  Sir,  sir,  look  at  my  father !  what  can  be  the  matter 
with  him?" 

Morel  had  heard  the  latter  part  of  this  narration  with 
a  dull  indifference,  which  Rodolph  had  accounted  for  by 
attributing  it  to  the  heavy  additional  misfortune  which 
had  occurred  to  him.  After  such  violent  and  repeated 
shocks,  his  tears  must  have  dried  up,  his  sensibility  have 
become  lost ;  he  had  not  even  the  strength  left  to  feel 
anger,  as  Rodolph  thought ;  but  Rodolph  was  mistaken. 
As  the  flame  of  a  candle  which  is  nearly  extinguished 
dies  away  and  recovers,  so  Morel's  reason,  already  much 
shaken,  wavered  for  some  time,  throwing  out  now  and 
then  some  small  rays  of  intelligence,  and  then  suddenly 
all  was  darkness. 

Absolutely  unconscious  of  what  was  said  or  passing 
around  him,  for  some  time  the  lapidary  had  become 
quite  insane.  Although  his  hand-wheel  was  placed  on 
the  other  side  of  his  working-table,  and  he  had  not  in 
his  hands  either  stones  or  tools,  yet  the  occupied  artisan 
was  feigning  the  operations  of  his  daily  labour,  and 
affecting  to  use  his  implements.  He  accompanied 
this  pantomime  with  a  sort  of  noise  with  his  tongue 
against  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  in  imitation  of  the  noise 
of  his  lathe  in  its  rotatory  motions. 

"  But,  sir,"  said  Louise  again,  with  increasing  fright, 
"  look,  pray  look  at  my  father ! " 

Then,  approaching  the  artisan,  she  said  to  him : 

"Father!  father!" 

98 


THE  ARREST. 


Morel  gazed  on  his  daughter  with  that  troubled,  vague, 
distracted,  wandering  look  which  characterises  the  insane, 
and  without  discontinuing  his  assumed  labour,  he  replied, 
in  a  low  and  melancholy  tone : 

"  I  owe  the  notary  thirteen  hundred  francs ;  it  is  the 
price  of  Louise's  blood,  —  so  I  must  work,  work,  work ! 
—  oh,  I'll  pay,  I'll  pay,  I'll  pay!" 

"  Can  it  be  possible  ?  This  cannot  be,  —  he  is  not 
mad,  —  no,  no ! "  exclaimed  Louise,  in  a  heart-rending 
voice.  "  He  will  recover,  —  it  is  but  a  momentary  fit  of 
absence ! " 

"  Morel,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Rodolph  to  him,  "  we 
are  here.  Your  daughter  is  near  you,  —  she  is  inno- 
cent." 

"  Thirteen  hundred  francs ! "  said  the  lapidary,  not 
attending  to  Rodolph,  but  going  on  with  his  sham 
employment. 

"  My  father !  "  exclaimed  Louise,  throwing  herself  at 
his  feet,  and  clasping  his  hands  in  her  own,  in  spite  of 
his  resistance,  "  it  is  I  —  it  is  your  Louise !  " 

"  Thirteen  hundred  francs,"  he  repeated,  wresting  his 
hands  from  the  grasp  of  his  daughter.  "  Thirteen  hun- 
dred francs,  —  and  if  not,"  he  added,  in  a  low  and  as  it 
were,  confidential  tone,  "  and  if  not,  Louise  is  to  be 
guillotined." 

And  again  he  imitated  the  turning  of  his  lathe. 

Louise  gave  a  piercing  shriek. 

"  He  is  mad  ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  he  is  mad !  and  it  is 
I  —  it  is  I  who  am  the  cause !  Oh !  Yet  it  is  not 
my  fault, — I  did  not  desire  to  do  ill, — -it  was  that 
monster." 

"  Courage,  courage,  my  poor  girl,"  said  Rodolph,  "  let 
us  hope  that  this  attack  is  but  momentary.  Your  father 
has  suffered  so  much ;  so  many  troubles,  all  at  once, 
were  more  than  he  could  bear.  His  reason  wanders  for 
a  moment ;  it  will  soon  be  restored." 

"But  my  mother,  my  grandmother,  my  sisters,  my 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


brothers,  what  will  become  of  them  all  ? "  exclaimed 
Louise,  "  Now  they  are  deprived  of  my  father  and  my- 
self, they  must  die  of  hunger,  misery  and  despair ! " 

"  Am  I  not  here  ?  —  make  your  mind  easy ;  they  shall 
want  for  nothing.  Courage,  I  say  to  you.  Your  dis- 
closure will  bring  about  the  punishment  of  a  great  crim- 
inal. You  have  convinced  me  of  your  innocence,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  but  that  it  will  be  discovered  and  pro- 
claimed." 

"Ah,  sir,  you  see,  —  dishonour,  madness,  death, —  see 
the  miseries  which  that  man  causes,  and  yet  no  one  can 
do  any  thing  against  him  !  Nothing !  The  very  thought 
completes  all  my  wretchedness." 

"  So  far  from  that,  let  the  contrary  thought  help  to 
support  you." 

"  What  mean  you,  sir  ? " 

"  Take  with  you  the  assurance  that  your  father,  your- 
self, and  your  family  shall  be  avenged." 
"  Avenged ! " 

"  Yes,  that  I  swear  to  you,"  replied  Rodolph,  solemnly ; 
"  I  swear  to  you  that  his  crimes  shall  be  exposed,  and  this 
man  shall  bitterly  expiate  the  dishonour,  madness,  and 
death  which  he  has  caused.  If  the  laws  are  powerless 
to  reach  him,  if  his  cunning  and  skill  equal  his  misdeeds, 
then  his  cunning  must  be  met  by  cunning,  his  skill  must 
be  counteracted  by  skill,  his  misdeeds  faced  by  other 
misdeeds,  but  which  shall  be  to  his  but  a  just  and 
avenging  retribution,  inflicted  on  a  guilty  wretch  by  an 
inexorable  hand,  when  compared  to  a  cowardly  and  base 
murder." 

"  Ah,  sir,  may  Heaven  hear  you !  It  is  no  longer 
myself  whom  I  seek  to  avenge,  but  a  poor,  distracted 
father,  —  my  child  killed  in  its  birth  —  " 

Then,  trying  another  effort  to  turn  Morel  from  his 
insanity,  Louise  again  exclaimed : 

"  Adieu,  father !  They  are  going  to  lead  me  to  prison, 
and  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  It  is  your  poor  Louise 
100 


THE  ARREST. 


who  bids  you  adieu.  My  father !  my  father !  my 
father!" 

To  this  distressing  appeal  there  was  no  response.  In 
that  poor,  destroyed  mind  there  was  no  echo,  —  none. 
,    The  paternal  cords,  always  the  last  broken,  no  longer 
vibrated. 

The  door  of  the  garret  opened;  the  commissary 
entered. 

"  My  moments  are  numbered,  sir,"  said  he  to  Rodolph. 
"  I  declare  to  you  with  much  regret  that  I  cannot  allow 
this  conversation  to  be  protracted  any  longer." 

"  This  conversation  is  ended,  sir,"  replied  Rodolph, 
bitterly,  and  pointing  to  the  lapidary.  "  Louise  has 
nothing  more  to  say  to  her  father,  —  he  has  nothing 
more  to  hear  from  his  daughter,  —  he  is  a  lunatic." 

"  I  feared  as  much.  It  is  really  frightful ! "  exclaimed 
the  magistrate. 

And  approaching  the  workman  hastily,  after  a 
minute's  scrutiny,  he  was  convinced  of  the  sad 
reality. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  he  sorrowfully  to  Rodolph,  "  I  had 
already  expressed  my  sincerest  wishes  that  the  inno- 
cence of>  this  young  girl  might  be  discovered ;  but  after 
such  a  misfortune  I  will  not  confine  myself  to  good 
wishes,  —  no,  —  no  !  I  will  speak  of  this  honest  and 
distressed  family ;  I  will  speak  of  this  fearful  and  last 
blow  which  has  overwhelmed  it ;  and  do  not  doubt  but 
that  the  judges  will  have  an  additional  motive  to  find 
the  accused  innocent." 

"  Thanks,  thanks,  sir !  "  said  Rodolph  ;  "  by  acting  thus 
it  will  not  be  a  mere  duty  that  you  fulfil,  but  a  holy 
office  which  you  undertake." 

"  Believe  me,  sir,  our  duty  is  always  such  a  painful 
one  that  it  is  most  grateful  to  us  to  be  interested  in  any 
thing  which  is  worthy  and  good." 

"  One  word  more,  sir.  The  disclosures  of  Louise 
101 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


Morel  have  fully  convinced  me  of  her  innocence.  Will 
you  be  so  kind  as  inform  me  how  her  pretended  crime 
was  discovered,  or  rather  denounced  ? " 

"  This  morning,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  a  housekeeper 
in  the  service  of  M.  Ferrand,  the  notary,  came  and 
deposed  before  me  that,  after  the  hasty  departure  of 
Louise  Morel,  whom  she  knew  to  be  seven  months 
advanced  in  the  family  way,  she  went  into  the  young 
girl's  apartment,  and  was  convinced  that  she  had  been 
prematurely  confined  ;  footsteps  had  been  traced  in  the 
snow,  which  had  led  to  the  detection  of  the  body  of  a 
new-born  child  buried  in  the  garden.  After  this  declara- 
tion I  went  myself  to  the  Rue  du  Sentier,  and  found  M. 
Jacques  Ferrand  most  indignant  that  such  a  scandalous 
affair  should  have  happened  in  his  house.  The  cure*  of 
the  church  Bonne  Nouvelle,  whom  he  had  sent  for,  also 
declared  to  me  that  Louise  Morel  had  owned  her  fault 
in  his  presence  one  day,  when,  on  this  account,  she  was 
imploring  the  indulgence  and  pity  of  her  master ;  that, 
besides,  he  had  often  heard  M.  Ferrand  give  Louise 
Morel  the  most  serious  warnings,  telling  her  that,  sooner 
or  later,  she  would  be  lost,  — '  a  prediction,'  added  the 
abbe",  1  which  has  been  unfortunately  fulfilled.'  The 
indignation  of  M.  Ferrand,"  continued  the  magistrate, 
"  seemed  to  me  so  just  and  natural,  that  I  shared  in  it. 
He  told  me  that,  no  doubt,  Louise  Morel  had  taken 
refuge  with  her  father.  I  came  hither  instantly,  for 
the  crime  being  flagrant,  I  was  empowered  to  proceed 
by  immediate  apprehension." 

Rodolph  with  difficulty  restrained  himself  when  he 
heard  of  the  indignation  of  M.  Ferrand,  and  said  to 
the  magistrate : 

"  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times,  sir,  for  your  kindness, 
and  the  support  you  promise  Louise.  I  will  take  care 
that  this  poor  man,  as  well  as  his  wife's  mother,  are 
sent  to  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Then,  addressing  Louise,  who  was  still  kneeling  close 
102 


THE  ARREST. 


to  her  father,  endeavouring,  but  vainly,  to  recall  him  to 
his  senses : 

"  Make  up  your  mind,  my  poor  girl,  to  go  without 
taking  leave  of  your  mother,  —  spare  her  the  pain  of 
such  a  parting.  Be  assured  that  she  shall  be  taken  care 
of,  and  nothing  shall  in  future  be  wanting  to  your  family, 
for  a  woman  shall  be  found  who  will  take  care  of  your 
mother  and  occupy  herself  with  your  brothers,  and  sis- 
ters, under  the  superintendence  of  your  kind  neighbour, 
Mile.  Rigolette.  As  for  your  father,  nothing  shall  be 
spared  to  make  his  return  to  reason  as  rapid  as  it  is 
complete.  Courage !  Believe  me,  honest  people  are  often 
severely  tried  by  misfortune,  but  they  always  come  out 
of  these  struggles  more  pure,  more  strong,  and  more 
respected.' 

Two  hours  after  the  apprehension  of  Louise,  the  lapi- 
dary and  the  old  idiot  mother  were,  by  Rodolph's  orders, 
taken  to  the  Bicetre  by  David,  where  they  were  to  be 
kept  in  private  rooms  and  to  receive  particular  care. 
Morel  left  the  house  in  the  Rue  du  Temple  without 
resistance ;  indifferent  as  he  was,  he  went  wherever  they 
led  him,  —  his  lunacy  was  gentle,  inoffensive,  and  mel- 
ancholy .  The  grandmother  was  hungry,  and  when  they 
showed  her  bread  and  meat  she  followed  the  bread  and 
meat.  The  jewels  of  the  lapidary,  entrusted  to  his  wife, 
were  the  same  day  given  to  Madame  Mathieu  (the  jewel- 
matcher),  who  fetched  them.  Unfortunately  she  was 
watched  and  followed  by  Tortillard,  who  knew  the 
value  of  the  pretended  false  stones  in  consequence  of 
the  conversation  he  had  overheard  during  the  time 
Morel  was  arrested  by  the  bailiffs.  The  son  of  Bras 
Rouge  discovered  that  she  lived,  Boulevard  Saint-Denis, 
No.  11. 

Rigolette  apprised  Madeleine  Morel,  with  considerable 
delicacy,  of  the  -fit  of  lunacy  which  had  attacked  the 
lapidary,  and  of  Louise's  imprisonment.    At  first,  Made- 
103 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


leine  wept  bitterly,  and  uttered  terrible  shrieks ;  then, 
the  first  burst  of  her  grief  over,  the  poor  creature,  weak 
and  overcome,  consoled  herself  well  as  she  could  by 
seeing  that  she  and  her  children  jre  surrounded  by  the 
many  comforts  which  she  owed  * )  the  generosity  .of  their 
benefactor. 

As  to  Rodolph,  his  thoughts  were  very  poignant  when 
he  considered  the  disclosures  of  Louise.  "  Nothing  is 
more  common,"  he  said,  "  than  this  corrupting  of  the 
female  servant  by  the  master,  either  by  consent  or 
against  it ;  sometimes  by  terror  and  surprise,  sometimes 
by  the  imperious  nature  of  those  relations  which  create 
servitude.  This  depravity,  descending  from  the  rich  to 
the  poor,  despising  (in  its  selfish  desire)  the  sanctity  of 
the  domestic  hearth,  —  this  depravity,  still  most  deplor- 
able when  it  is  voluntarily  submitted  to,  becomes  hid- 
eous, frightful,  when  it  is  satisfied  with  violence.  It  is 
an  impure  and  brutal  slavery,  an  ignoble  and  barbarous 
tyranny  over  a  fellow-creature,  who  in  her  fright  replies 
to  the  solicitations  of  her  master  by  her  tears,  and  to 
his  declarations  with  a  shudder  of  fear  and  disgust. 
And  then,"  continued  Rodolph,  "  what  is  the  consequence 
to  the  female  ?  Almost  invariably  there  follow  degrada- 
tion, misery,  prostitution,  theft,  and  sometimes  infanti- 
cide !  And  yet  the  laws  are,  as  yet,  strangers  to  this 
crime !  Every  accomplice  of  a  crime  has  the  punish- 
ment of  that  crime ;  every  receiver  is  considered  as 
guilty  as  the  thief.  That  is  justice.  But  when  a  man 
wantonly  seduces  a  young,  innocent,  and  pure  girl,  ren- 
ders her  a  mother,  abandons  her,  leaving  her  but  shame, 
disgrace,  despair,  and  driving  her,  perchance,  to  infanti- 
cide, a  crime  for  which  she  forfeits  her  life,  is  this  man 
considered  as  her  accomplice  ?  Pooh  !  What,  then,  fol- 
lows ?  Oh,  'tis  nothing,  —  nothing  but  a  little  love-affair ! 
the  whim  of  the  day  for  a  pair  of  bright  eyes.  Then 
she  is  left,  and  he  looks  out  for  the  next.  Still  more,  it 
is  just  possible  that  the  man  may  be  of  an  original,  an 
104 


THE  ARREST. 

inquisitive  turn,  perhaps,  at  the  same  time,  an  excellent 
brother  and  son,  and  may  go  to  the  bar  of  the  criminal 
court  and  see  his  p?  amour  tried  for  her  life  !  If  by- 
chance  he  should  bi  subpoenaed  as  a  witness,  he  may 
amuse  himself  by  say  ag  to  the  persons  desirous  of  hav- 
ing the  poor  girl  executed  as  soon  as  possible,  for  the 
greater  edification  of  the  public  morals,  4 1  have  some- 
thing important  to  disclose  to  justice.'  '  Speak  ! '  '  Gentle- 
men of  the  jury,  —  This  unhappy  female  was  pure  and 
virtuous,  it  is  true.  I  seduced  her,  —  that  is  equally  true  ; 
she  bore  me  a  child,  —  that  is  also  true.  After  that,  as 
she  has  a  light  complexion,  I  completely  forsook  her  for 
a  pretty  brunette,  —  that  is  still  more  true  ;  but,  in  doing 
so,  I  have  only  followed  out  an  imprescriptible  right,  a 
sacred  right  which  society  recognizes  and  accords  to  me.' 
'  The  truth  is,  this  young  man  is  perfectly  in  the  right,' 
the  jury  would  say  one  to  another ;  4  there  is  no  law 
which  prevents  a  young  man  from  seducing  a  fair  girl, 
and  then  forsaking  her  for  a  brunette  ;  he  is  a  gay  young 
chap,  and  that's  all.'  <  Now,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  this 
unhappy  girl  is  said  to  have  killed  her  child,  —  I  will  say 
our  child,  —  because  I  abandoned  her  ;  because,  finding 
herseF  alone  and  in  the  deepest  misery,  she  became 
frightened,  and  lost  her  senses  !  And  wherefore  ?  Be- 
cause having,  as  she  says,  to  bring  up  and  feed  her  child, 
it  was  impossible  that  she  could  continue  to  work  regu- 
larly at  her  occupation,  and  gain  a  livelihood  for  herself 
and  this  pledge  of  our  love  !  But  I  think  these  reasons 
quite  unworthy  of  consideration,  allow  me  to  say,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury.  Could  she  not  have  gone  to  the  Lying- 
in  Hospital,  if  there  was  room  for  her  ?  Could  she  not, 
at  the  critical  moment,  have  gone  to  the  magistrate  of 
her  district  and  made  a  declaration  of  her  shame,  so  that 
she  might  have  had  authority  for  placing  her  child  in  the 
Enf ants  Trouve"s  ?  In  fact,  could  she  not,  whilst  I  was 
playing  billiards  at  the  coffee-house,  whilst  awaiting  my 
other  mistress,  could  she  not  have  extricated  herself 
105 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


from  this  affair  by  some  genteeler  mode  than  this  ?  For, 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  will  admit  that  I  consider  this 
way  of  disposing  of  the  pledge  of  our  loves  as  rather  too 
unceremonious  and  rude,  under  the  idea  of  thus  quietly 
escaping  all  future  care  and  trouble.  What,  is  it  enough 
for  a  young  girl  to  lose  her  character,  brave  contempt, 
infamy,  and  have  an  illegitimate  child  ?  No  ;  but  she 
must  also  educate  the  child,  take  care  of  it,  bring  it  up, 
give  it  a  business,  and  make  an  honest  man  of  it,  if  it 
be  a  boy,  like  its  father ;  or  an  honest  girl,  who  does  not 
turn  wanton  like  her  mother.  For,  really,  maternity  has 
its  sacred  duties,  and  the  wretches  who  trample  them 
under  foot  are  unnatural  mothers,  who  deserve  an  ex- 
emplary and  notable  punishment;  as  a  proof  of  which, 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  beg  you  will  unhesitatingly 
hand  over  this  miserable  woman  to  the  executioner,  and 
you  will  thus  do  your  duty  like  independent,  firm,  and 
enlightened  citizens.  Dixi ! 1  '  This  gentleman  looks 
at  the  question  in  a  very  moral  point  of  view,'  will  say 
some  hatmaker  or  retired  furrier,  who  is  foreman  of  the 
jury ;  '  he  has  done,  i'faith,  what  we  should  all  have  done 
in  his  place  ;  for  the  girl  is  very  pretty,  though  rather 
pallid  in  complexion.    This  gay  spark,  as  the  song  says : 

"  1 "  Has  kissed  and  has  prattled  with  fifty  fair  maids, 
And  changed  them  as  oft,  do  you  see  ;  " 

and  there  is  no  law  against  that.  As  to  this  unfortunate 
girl,  after  all,  it  is  her  own  fault !  Why  did  she  not  re- 
pulse him  ?  Then  she  would  not  have  committed  a 
crime,  —  a  monstrous  crime  !  which  really  puts  all  soci- 
ety to  the  blush.'  And  the  hatter  or  the  furrier  would 
be  right,  —  perfectly  right..  What  is  there  to  criminate 
this  gentleman  ?  Of  what  complicity,  direct  or  indirect, 
moral  or  material,  can  he  be  charged  ?  This  lucky  rogue 
has  seduced  a  pretty  girl,  and  he  it  is  who  has  brought 
her  there  ;  he  does  not  deny  it ;  where  is  the  law  that 
106 


THE  ARREST. 


prevents  or  punishes  him  ?  Society  merely  says  :  There 
are  gay  young  fellows  abroad,  —  let  the  pretty  girls  be- 
ware !  But  if  a  poor  wretch,  through  want  or  stupidity, 
constraint,  or  ignorance  of  the  laws  which  he  cannot 
read,  buys  knowingly  a  rag  which  has  been  stolen,  he 
will  be  sent  to  the  galleys  for  twenty  years  as  a  receiver, 
if  such  be  the  punishment  for  the  theft  itself.  This  is 
logical,  powerful  reasoning,  — '  Without  receivers  there 
would  be  no  thieves,  without  thieves  there  would  be  no 
receivers.'  No,  no  more  pity,  then  —  even  less  pity  — 
for  him  who  excites  to  the  evil  than  he  who  perpetrates 
it.  Let  the  smallest  degree  of  complicity  be  visited  with 
terrible  punishment !  Good  ;  there  is  in  that  a  serious 
and  fertile  thought,  high  and  moral.  We  should  bow  be- 
fore Society  which  had  dictated  such  a  law  ;  but  we  remem- 
ber that  this  Society,  so  inexorable  towards  the  smallest 
complicity  of  crime'  against  things,  is  so  framed  that  a 
simple  and  ingenuous  man,  who  should  try  to  prove  that 
there  is  at  least  moral  similarity,  material  complicity, 
between  the  fickle  seducer  and  the  seduced  and  forsaken 
girl,  would  be  laughed  at  as  a  visionary.  And  if  this 
simple  man  were  to  assert  that  without  a  father  there 
would,  in  all  probability,  not  be  offspring,  Society  would 
exclaim  against  the  atrocity,  —  the  folly  !  And  it  would 
be  right,  —  quite  right ;  for,  after  all,  this  gay  youth  who 
might  say  these  fine  things  to  the  jury,  however  little  he 
might  like  tragic  emotions,  might  yet  go  tranquilly  to  see 
his  mistress  executed,  —  executed  for  child-murder,  a 
crime  to  which  he  was  an  accessory ;  nay  more,  the 
author,  in  consequence  of  his  shameless  abandonment ! 
Does  not  this  charming  protection,  granted  to  the  male 
portion  of  society  for  certain  gay  doings  suggested  by 
the  god  of  Love,  show  plainly  that  France  still  sacri- 
fices to  the  Graces,  and  is  still  the  most  gallant  nation 
in  the  world  ? " 


107 


CHAPTER  III. 


JACQUES  PEEK  AND. 

At  the  period  when  the  events  were  passing  which 
we  are  now  relating,  at  one  end  of  the  Rue  du  Sentier 
a  long  old  wall  extended,  covered  with  a  coat  of  white- 
wash, and  the  top  garnished  with  a  row  of  broken  flint- 
glass  bottles ;  this  wall,  bounding  on  one  side  the  garden 
of  Jacques  Ferrand,  the  notary,  terminated  with  a  corps 
de  logis  facing  the  street,  only  one  story  high,  with 
garrets.  Two  large  escutcheons  of  gilt  copper,  emblems 
of  the  notarial  residence,  flanked  the  worm-eaten  porte 
cochere,  of  which  the  primitive  colour  was  no  longer  to 
be  distinguished  under  the  mud  which  covered  it.  This 
entrance  led  to  an  open  passage ;  on  the  right  was  the 
lodge  of  an  old  porter,  almost  deaf,  who  was  to  the  body 
of  tailors  what  M.  Pipelet  was  to  the  body  of  boot- 
makers; on  the  left  a  stable,  used  as  a  cellar,  wash- 
house,  woodhouse,  and  the  establishment  of  a  rising 
colony  of  rabbits  belonging  to  the  porter,  who  was 
dissipating  the  sorrows  of  a  recent  widowhood  by  bring- 
ing up  these  domestic  animals.  Beside  the  lodge  was 
the  opening  of  a  twisting  staircase,  narrow  and  dark, 
leading  to  the  office,  as  was  announced  to  the  clients  by 
a  hand  painted  black,  whose  forefinger  was  directed 
towards  these  words,  also  painted  in  black  upon  the 
wall,  «  The  Office  on  the  first  floor." 

On  one  side  of  a  large  paved  court,  overgrown  with 
grass,  were  empty  stables ;  on  the  other  side,  a  rusty 
iron  gate,  which  shut  in  the  garden ;  at  the  bottom 
108 


JACQUES  FERRAND. 


the  pavilion,  inhabited  only  by  the  notary.  A  flight  of 
eight  or  ten  steps  of  disjointed  stones,  which  were  moss- 
grown  and  time-worn,  led  to  this  square  pavilion,  con- 
sisting of  a  kitchen  and  other  underground  offices,  a 
ground  floor,  a  first  floor,  and  the  top  rooms,  in  one  of 
which  Louise  had  slept.  The  pavilion  also  appeared  in 
a  state  of  great  dilapidation.  There  were  deep  chinks 
in  the  walls ;  the  window-frames  and  outside  blinds, 
once  painted  gray,  had  become  almost  black  by  time ; 
the  six  windows  on  the  first  floor,  looking  out  into  the 
courtyard,  had  no  curtains ;  a  sort  of  greasy  and  opaque 
deposit  covered  the  glass;  on  the  ground  floor  there 
were  visible  through  the  window-panes  more  trans- 
parent, faded  yellow  cotton  curtains,  with  red  bindings. 

On  the  garden  side  the  pavilion  had  only  four  win- 
dows. The  garden,  overgrown  with  parasitical  plants, 
seemed  wholly  neglected.  There  was  no  flower  border, 
not  a  bush ;  a  clump  of  elms ;  five  or  six  large  green 
trees ;  some  acacias  and  elder-trees ;  a  yellowish  grass- 
plat,  half  destroyed  by  moss  and  the  scorch  of  the  sun ; 
muddy  paths,  choked  up  with  weeds ;  at  the  bottom,  a 
sort  of  half  cellar ;  for  horizon,  the  high,  naked,  gray 
walls  of  the  adjacent  houses,  having  here  and  there 
skylights  barred  like  prison  windows,  —  such  was  the 
miserable  appearance  of  the  garden  and  dwelling  of 
the  notary. 

To  this  appearance,  or  rather  reality,  M.  Ferrand 
attached  great  importance.  In  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar, 
carelessness  about  comfort  almost  always  passes  for 
disinterestedness ;  dirt,  for  austerity.  Comparing  the 
vast  financial  luxury  of  some  notaries,  or  the  costly 
toilets  of  their  wives,  to  the  dull  abode  of  M.  Ferrand, 
so  opposed  to  elegance,  expense,  or  splendour,  clients 
felt  a  sort  of  respect  for,  or  rather  blind  confidence  in,  a 
man  who,  according  to  his  large  practice  and  the  fortune 
attributed  to  him,  could  say,  like  many  of  his  profes- 
sional brethren,  my  carriage,  my  evening  party,  my 
109 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


country-house,  my  box  at  the  opera,  etc.  But,  far 
from  this,  Jacques  Ferrand  lived  with  rigid  economy ; 
and  thus  deposits,  investments,  powers  of  attorney,  in 
fact,  all  matters  of  trust  and  business  requiring  the  most 
scrupulous  and  recognised  integrity,  accumulated  in  his 
hands. 

Living  thus  meanly  as  he  did,  the  notary  lived  in  'the 
way  he  liked.  He  detested  the  world,  show,  dearly 
purchased  pleasures ;  and,  even  had  it  been  otherwise, 
he  would  unhesitatingly  have  sacrificed  his  dearest 
inclinations  to  the  appearances  which  he  found  it  so 
profitable  to  assume. 

A  word  or  two  on  the  character  of  the  man.  He 
was  one  of  the  children  of  the  large  family  of  misers. 
Misers  -are  generally  exhibited  in  a  ridiculous  and  whim- 
sical light ;  the  worst  do  not  go  beyond  egotism  or 
harshness.  The  greater  portion  increase  their  fortune 
by  continually  investing ;  some  (they  are  but  few)  lend 
at  thirty  per  cent.;  the  most  decided  hardly  venture  any 
risk  with  their  means ;  but  it  is  almost  an  unheard-of 
thing  for  a  miser  to  proceed  to  crime,  even  murder,  in 
the  acquisition  of  fresh  wealth. 

That  is  easily  accounted  for ;  avarice  is  especially  a 
negative  passion.  The  miser,  in  his  incessant  calcula- 
tions, thinks  more  of  becoming  richer  by  not  disbursing ; 
in  tightening  around  him,  more  and  more,  the  limits  of 
strict  necessity,  than  he  does  of  enriching  himself  at  the 
cost  of  another ;  he  is  especially  the  martyr  to  preserva- 
tion. Weak,  timid,  cunning,  distrustful,  and,  above  all, 
prudent  and  circumspect,  never  offensive,  indifferent  to 
the  ills  of  his  neighbour,  —  the  miser  at  least  never 
alludes  to  these  ills,  —  he  is,  before  all  and  above  all,  the 
man  of  certainty  and  surety ;  or,  rather,  he  is  only  a 
miser  because  he  believes  only  in  the  substantial,  the 
hard  gold  which  he  has  locked  up  in  his  chest.  Specu- 
lations and  loans,  on  even  undoubted  security,  tempt  him 
but  little,  for,  how  improbable  soever  it  may  be,  they 
110 


JACQUES  FERRAND. 


always  offer  a  chance  of  loss,  and  he  prefers  rather  to 
^lose  the  interest  of  his  money  than  expose  his  capital. 
A  man  so  timorous  will,  therefore,  seldom  have  the 
savage  energy  of  the  wretch  who  risks  the  galleys  or 
his  neck  to  lay  hands  on  the  wealth  of  another. 

Risk  is  a  word  erased  from  the  vocabulary  of  the 
miser.  It  is  in  this  sense  that  Jacques  Ferrand  was,  let 
us  say,  a  very  singular  exception,  perhaps  a  new  variety 
of  the  genus  Miser ;  for  Jacques  Ferrand  did  risk,  and  a 
great  deal.  He  relied  on  his  craft,  which  was  excessive ; 
on  his  hypocrisy,  which  was  unbounded ;  on  his  intellect, 
which  was  elastic  and  fertile  ;  on  his  boldness,  which 
was  devilish,  in  assuring  him  impunity  for  his  crimes, 
and  they  were  already  numerous. 

Jacques  Ferrand  was  a  twofold  exception.  Usually 
these  adventurous,  energetic  spirits,  which  do  not  recoil 
before  any  crime  that  will  procure  gold,  are  beset  by 
turbulent  passions  —  gaming,  dissipation,  gluttony,  or 
other  pleasures.  Jacques  Ferrand  knew  none  of  these 
violent  and  stormy  desires  ;  cunning  and  patient  as  a 
forger,  sruel  and  resolute  as  an  assassin,  he  was  as  sober 
and  regular  as  Harpagon.  One  passion  alone  was  active 
within  him,  and  this  we  have  seen  too  fatally  exhibited 
in  his  early  conduct  to  Louise.  The  loan  of  thirteen 
hundred  francs  to  Morel  at  high  interest  was,  in 
Ferrand's  hands,  a  snare  —  a  means  of  oppression  and 
a  source  of  profit.  Sure  of  the  lapidary's  honesty,  he 
was  certain  of  being  repaid  in  full  some  day  or  other. 
Still  Louise's  beauty  must  have  made  a  deep  impression 
on  him  to  have  made  him  lay  out  of  a  sum  of  money 
so  advantageously  placed. 

Except  this  weakness,  Jacques  Ferrand  loved  gold 
only.  He  loved  gold  for  gold's  sake ;  not  for  the  enjoy- 
ments it  procured,  —  he  was  a  stoic ;  not  for  the  enjoy- 
ments it  might  procure,  —  he  was  not  sufficiently  poetical 
to  enjoy  speculatively,  like  some  misers.  With  regard  to 
what  belonged  to  himself,  he  loved  possession  for  posses- 
111 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


sion's  sake ;  with  regard  to  what  belonged  to  others,  if 
it  concerned  a  large  deposit,  for  instance,  liberally  con- 
fided to  his  probity  only,  he  experienced  in  returning 
this  deposit  the  same  agony,  the  same  despair,  as  the 
goldsmith,  Cardillac,  did  in  separating  himself  from  a 
casket  of  jewels  which  his  own  exquisite  taste  had  fash- 
ioned into  a  chef-d'oeuvre  of  art.  With  the  notary,  his 
character  for  extreme  probity  was  his  chef-d'oeuvre  of 
art ;  a  deposit  was  to  him  a  jewel,  which  he  could  not 
surrender  but  with  poignant  regrets.  What  care,  what 
cunning,  what  stratagems,  what  skill,  in  a  word,  what 
art,  did  he  use  to  attract  this  sum  into  his  own  strong 
box,  still  maintaining  that  extreme  character  for  honour, 
which  was  beset  with  the  most  precious  marks  of  con- 
fidence, like  the  pearls  and  diamonds  in  the  golden 
diadems  of  Cardillac.  The  more  this  celebrated  gold- 
smith approached  perfection,  they  say,  the  more  value 
did  he  attach  to  his  ornaments,  always  considering  the 
last  as  his  chef-d'oeuvre,  and  being  utterly  distressed  at 
giving  it  up.  The  more  Jacques  Ferrand  grew  perfect 
in  crime,  the  more  he  clung  to  the  open  and  constant 
marks  of  confidence  which  were  showered  upon  him, 
always  considering  his  last  deceit  as  his  chef-d'oeuvre. 

We  shall  see  in  the  sequel  of  this  history  that,  by  the 
aid  of  certain  means  really  prodigious  in  plan  and  carry- 
ing out,  he  contrived  to  appropriate  to  himself,  with 
impunity,  several  very  considerable  sums.  His  secret 
and  mysterious  life  gave  him  incessant  and  terrible 
emotions,  such  as  gaming  gives  to  the  gambler.  Against 
all  other  men's  fortunes  Jacques  Ferrand  staked  his 
hypocrisy,  his  boldness,  his  head ;  and  he  played  on 
velvet,  as  it  is  called,  far  out  of  the  reach  of  human 
justice,  which  he  vulgarly  and  energetically  characterised 
as  a  chimney  which  might  fall  on  one's  head ;  for  him 
to  lose  was  only  not  to  gain ;  and,  moreover,  he  was 
so  criminally  gifted  that,  in  his  bitter  irony,  he  saw  a 
continued  gain  in  boundless  esteem,  the  unlimited  con- 
112 


JACQUES  FERRAND. 


fidence  which  he  inspired,  not  only  in  a  multitude  of 
rich  clients,  but  also  in  the  smaller  tradespeople  and 
workmen  of  his  district.  A  great  many  of  these  placed 
their  money  with  him,  saying,  "  He  is  not  charitable,  it 
is  true;  he  is  a  devotee,  and  that's  a  pity;  but  he  is 
much  safer  than  the  government  or  the  savings-banks." 
In  spite  of  his  uncommon  ability,  this  man  had  com- 
mitted two  of  those  mistakes  from  which  the  most 
skilful  rogues  do  not  always  escape ;  forced  by  circum- 
stances, it  is  true,  he  had  associated  with  himself  two 
accomplices.  This  immense  fault,  as  he  called  it,  had 
been  in  part  repaired ;  neither  of  his  two  associates 
could  destroy  him  without  destroying  themselves,  and 
neither  would  have  reaped  from  denunciation  any  other 
profit  but  of  drawing  down  justice  on  themselves  as  well 
as  on  the  notary;  on  this  score  he  was  quite  easy. 
Besides,  he  was  not  at  the  end  of  his  crimes,  and  the 
disadvantages  of  accompliceship  were  balanced  by  the 
criminal  aid  which  at  times  he  still  obtained. 

A  few  words  as  to  the  personal  appearance  of  M. 
Ferrand,  and  we  will  introduce  the  reader  into  the 
notary's  study,  where  we  shall  encounter  some  of 
the  principal  personages  in  this  recital. 

M.  Ferrand  was  fifty  years  of  age,  but  did  not  appear 
forty ;  he  was  of  middle  height,  with  broad  and  stooping 
shoulders,  powerful,  thickset,  strong-limbed,  red-haired, 
and  naturally  as  hirsute  as  a  bear.  His  hair  was  flat 
on  his  temples,  his  forehead  bald,  his  eyebrows  scarcely 
perceptible ;  his  bilious  complexion  was  almost  concealed 
by  innumerable  red  spots,  and,  when  strong  emotion 
agitated  him,  his  yellow  and  murky  countenance  was 
injected  with  blood,  and  became  a  livid  red.  His  face 
was  as  flat  as  a  death's  head,  as  is  vulgarly  said ;  his 
nose  thick  and  flat ;  his  lips  so  thin,  so  imperceptible, 
that  his  mouth  seemed  incised  in  his  face,  and,  when  he 
smiled  with  his  villainous  and  revolting  air,  his  teeth 
seemed  as  though  supplied  by  black  and  rotten  fangs. 
113 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


His  pallid  face  had  an  expression  at  once  austere  and 
devout,  impassible  and  inflexible,  cold  and  reflective  ; 
whilst  his  small,  black,  animated,  peering,  and  restless 
eyes  were  lost  behind  large  green  spectacles. 

Jacques  Ferrand  saw  admirably  well ;  but,  sheltered 
by  his  glasses,  he  had  an  immense  advantage  ;  he  could 
observe  without  being  observed ;  and  well  he  knew  how 
often  a  glance  is  unwittingly  full  of  meaning.  In  spite 
of  his  imperturbable  audacity,  he  had  met  twice  or 
thrice  in  his  life  certain  potent  and  magnetic  looks, 
before  which  his  own  had  compulsorily  been  lowered ; 
and  in  some  important  circumstances  it  is  fatal  to  lower 
the  eyes  before  the  man  who  interrogates,  accuses,  or 
judges  you.  The  large  spectacles  of  M.  Ferrand  were 
thus  a  kind  of  covert  retrenchment,  whence  he  could 
reconnoitre  and  observe  every  movement  of  the  enemy ; 
and  all  the  world  was  the  notary's  enemy,  because  all 
the  world  was,  more  or  less,  his  dupe ;  and  accusers  are 
but  enlightened  or  disgusted  dupes.  He  affected  a  neg- 
ligence in  his  dress  almost  amounting  to  dirtiness,  or 
rather,  he  was  naturally  so ;  his  chin  shaven  only  every 
two  or  three  days,  his  grimy  and  wrinkled  head,  his 
broad  nails  encircled  in  black,  his  unpleasant  odour, 
his  threadbare  coat,  his  greasy  hat,  his  coarse  neckcloth, 
his  black-worsted  stockings,  his  clumsy  shoes,  all  curi- 
ously betokened  his  worthiness  with  his  clients,  by 
giving  him  an  air  of  disregard  of  the  world,  and  an 
air  of  practical  philosophy,  which  delighted  them. 

They  said :  "  What  tastes,  what  passions,  what  feel- 
ings, what  weaknesses,  must  the  notary  sacrifice  to 
obtain  the  confidence  he  inspires !  He  gains,  perhaps, 
sixty  thousand  francs  (2,4002)  a  year,  and  his  household 
consists  of  a  servant  and  an  old  housekeeper.  His  only 
pleasure  is  to  go  on  Sundays  to  mass  and  vespers,  and 
he  knows  no  opera  comparable  to  the  grave  chanting  of 
the  organ,  no  worldly  society  which  is  worth  an  evening 
quietly  passed  at  his  fireside  corner  with  the  cure*  of  the 


JACQUES  FERRAND. 

parish  after  a  frugal  dinner ;  in  fine,  he  places  his  enjoy- 
ment »in  probity,  his  pride  in  honour,  his  happiness  in 
religion." 

Such  was  the  opinion  of  the  contemporaries  of  M. 
Jacques  Ferrand. 


115 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  OFFICE. 

The  office  of  M.  Ferrand  resembled  all  other  offices, 
and  his  clerks  all  other  clerks.  It  was  approached 
through  an  antechamber,  furnished  with  four  old  chairs. 
In  the  office,  properly  so-called,  surrounded  by  rows  of 
shelves,  ornamented  with  pasteboard  boxes,  containing 
the  papers  of  the  clients  of  M.  Ferrand,  five  young  men, 
stooping  over  black  wooden  desks,  were  laughing,  gos- 
siping, or  scribbling  perpetually.  A  waiting-room,  also 
filled  with  pasteboard  boxes,  and  in  which  the  chief 
clerk  was  constantly  stationed,  and  another  room,  which, 
for  greater  secrecy,  was  kept  unoccupied,  between  the 
notary's  private  room  and  the  waiting-room,  completed 
the  total  of  this  laboratory  of  deeds  of  every  description. 

An  old  cuckoo-clock,  placed  between  the  two  windows 
of  the  office,  had  just  struck  two  o'clock,  and  a  certain 
bustle  prevailed  amongst  the  clerks ;  a  part  of  their  con- 
versation will  inform  the  reader  as  to  the  cause  of  this 
excitement. 

"  Well,  if  any  one  had  told  me  that  Francois  Germain 
was  a  thief,"  said  one  of  the  young  men,  "  I  should  have 
said,  *  That's  a  lie ! "' 

«  So  should  I." 

"And  I." 

"  And  I.  It  really  quite  affected  me  to  see  him  arrested 
and  led  away  by  the  police.    I  could  not  eat  any  break- 
fast ;  but  I  have  been  rewarded  by  not  having  to  eat  the 
116 


THE  OFFICE. 


daily  mess  doled  out  by  Mother  Se*raphin,  for,  as  the 
song  goes: 

1  To  eat  the  allowance  of  old  Seraphin, 
One  must  have  a  twist  indeed.' " 

"Capital!  why,  Chalamel,  you  are  beginning  your 
poetry  already." 

« I  demand  Chalamel's  head !  " 

"  Folly  apart,  it  is  very  terrible  for  poor  Germain." 

"  Seventeen  thousand  francs  (680Z.)  is  a  lump  of 
money ! " 

"  I  believe  you  !  " 

"And  yet,  for  the  fifteen  months  that  Germain  has 
been  cashier,  he  was  never  a  farthing  deficient  in  making 
up  his  books." 

"  I  think  the  governor  was  wrong  to  arrest  Germain, 
for  the  poor  fellow  swore  that  he  had  only  taken  thirteen 
hundred  francs  (52Z.)  in  gold,  and  that,  moreover,  he 
brought  back  the  thirteen  hundred  francs  this  morning, 
to  return  them  to  the  money-chest,  at  the  very  moment 
when  our  master  sent  for  the  police." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  bore  of  people  of  such  ferocious 
honesty  as  our  governor,  they  have  no  pity ! " 

"  But  they  ought  to  think  twice  before  they  ruin  a 
poor  young  fellow,  who,  up  to  this  time,  has  behaved 
with  strict  honesty." 

"  M.  Ferrand  said  he  did  it  for  an  example." 

"  Example  ?  What  ?  It  is  none  to  the  honest,  and 
the  dishonest  know  well  enough  what  they  expose  them- 
selves to  if  they  are  found  out  in  any  delinquencies." 

"  Our  house  seems  to  produce  lots  of  jobs  for  the 
police  officers." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  this  morning  there  was  poor  little  Louise,  and 
now  poor  Germain." 

"  I  confess  that  Germain's  affair  was  not  quite  clear 
to  me." 

117 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  But  he  confessed  ? " 

"  He  confessed  that  he  had  taken  thirteen  hundred 
francs,  certainly ;  but  he  declared  most  vehemently  that 
he  had  not  taken  the  other  fifteen  thousand  francs  in 
bank-notes,  and  the  other  seven  hundred  francs  which 
are  short  in  the  strong  box." 

"  True ;  and,  if  he  confessed  one  thing,  why  shouldn't 
he  confess  another  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so ;  for  a  man  is  as  much  punished  for  five 
hundred  francs  as  he  is  for  fifteen  thousand  francs." 

"  Yes ;  only  they  retain  the  fifteen  thousand  francs, 
and,  when  they  leave  prison,  this  forms  a  little  fund  to 
start  upon  ;  and,  as  the  swan  of  Cambrai  sings : 

'  To  get  a  jolly  lot  of  "  swag  " 
A  cove  must  dip  deep  in  the  lucky-bag.' " 

"  I  demand  Chalamel's  head  ! " 

"  Can't  you  talk  sense  for  five  minutes  ?  " 

"  Ah,  here's  Jabulot !  won't  he  be  astonished  ?  " 

"  What  at,  my  boys  ?  what  at  ?  Anything  fresh  about 
poor  Louise  ? " 

"  You  would  have  known,  roving  blade,  if  you  had  not 
been  so  long  in  your  rounds." 

"  What,  you  think  it  is  but  a  step  from  here  to  the 
Rue  de  Chaillot?" 

"  I  never  said  so." 

"Well,  what  about  that  gallant  don,  the  famous 
Viscount  de  Saint-R6my  ?  " 
"  Has  he  not  been  here  yet  ? " 
«  No." 

"Well,  his  horses  were  harnessed,  and  he  sent  me 
word  by  his  valet  de  chambre,  that  he  would  come  here 
directly.  But  he  didn't  seem  best  pleased,  the  servant 
said.  Oh,  my  boys !  such  a  lovely  little  house,  furnished 
most  magnificently,  like  one  of  the  dwellings  of  the 
olden  time  that  Faublas  writes  about.  Oh,  Faublas !  he 
118 


THE  OFFICE. 


is  my  heco  —  my  model !  "  said  the  clerk,  putting  down 
his  umbrella  and  taking  off  his  clogs. 

"  You  are  right,  Jabulot ;  for,  as  that  sublime  old  blind 
man,  Homer,  said : 

<  Faublas,  that  amorous  hero,  it  is  said, 
Forsook  the  duchess  for  the  waiting-maid.' " 

"  Yes ;  but  then,  she  was  a  theatrical  '  waiting-maid,' 
my  lads." 

"  I  demand  Chalamel's  head ! " 

"  But  about  this  Viscount  de  Saint-Rdmy  ?  Jabulot 
says  his  mansion  is  superb." 
"  Pyramidic ! " 

"Then,  I'll  be  bound,  he  has  debts  not  a  few,  and 
arrests  to  match,  this  viscount." 

«  A  bill  of  thirty-four  thousand  francs  (1,360?.)  has 
been  sent  here  by  the  officer.  It  is  made  payable  at  the 
office.  This  is  his  creditors'  doing ;  I  don't  know  why 
or  wherefore." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  that  this  dandy  viscount  would 
pay  now,  because  he  came  from  the  country  last  night, 
where  he  has  been  concealed  these  three  days,  in  order 
to  escape  from  the  bailiffs." 

"  How  is  it,  then,  that  they  have  not  seized  the  furni- 
ture already  ? " 

u  Why  ?  oh,  he's  too  cunning !  The  house  is  not  his 
own  ;  all  the  furniture  is  in  the  name  of  his  valet  de 
chambre,  who  is  said  to  let  it  to  him  furnished ;  and,  in  the 
same  way,  his  horses  and  carriages  are  in  his  coachman's 
name,  who  declares  that  he  lets  to  the  viscount  his 
splendid  turn-out  at  so  much  a  month.  Ah,  he's  a 
'  downy '  one,  is  M.  de  Saint-Remy !  But  what  were 
you  going  to  tell  me  ?  what  has  happened  here  fresh  ?  " 

a  Why,  imagine  the  governor  coming  in  here  two  hours 
ago  in  a  most  awful  passion.  '  Germain  is  not  here  ? ' 
he  exclaimed.  i  No,  sir.'  '  Well,  the  rascal  has  robbed 
119 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


me  last  night  of  seventeen  thousand  francs ! '  says  the 
governor." 

"  Germain  —  rob  —  ah,  come,  that's  4  no  go  ! ' " 
"  You  will  hear.  '  What,  sir,  are  you  sure  ?  but  it 
cannot  be,'  we  all  cried  out.  4  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,' 
said  the  governor,  4  that  yesterday  I  put  in  the  drawer 
of  the  bureau  at  which  he  writes,  fifteen  notes  of  one 
thousand  francs  each,  and  two  thousand  francs  in  gold, 
in  a  little  box,  and  it  is  all  gone.'  At  this  moment  old 
Marriton,  the  porter,  came  in,  and  he  said,  4  Sir,  the 
police  are  coming  ;  where  is  Germain  ? '  4  Wait  a  bit,' 
said  the  governor  to  the  porter ;  4  as  soon  as  M.  Germain 
returns,  send  him  into  the  office,  without  saying  a  word. 
I  will  confront  him  before  you  all,  gentlemen,'  said  the 
governor.  At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  comes 
poor  Germain,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Old  Mother 
Seraphin  had  brought  in  our  morning  mess.  Germain 
made  his  bow  to  the  governor,  and  wished  us  all  '  good 
morning,'  as  usual.  '  Germain,  don't  you  take  your 
breakfast  ? '  inquired  M.  Ferrand.  4  No,  thank  you,  sir, 
I  am  not  hungry.'  '  You're  very  late  this  morning.' 
4  Yes,  sir ;  I  was  obliged  to  go  to  Belleville  this  morning.' 
4  No  doubt  to  hide  the  money  you  have  stolen  from  me ! ' 
M.  Ferrand  said,  in  a  terrible  voice." 
44  And  Germain  ?  " 

44  The  poor  fellow  turned  as  pale  as  death,  and  stam- 
mered out,  4  Pray  —  pray,  sir,  do  not  ruin  me  — 
44  What !  he  had  stolen  —  " 

44  Listen,  Jabulot :  4  Do  not  ruin  me,'  says  he  to  the 
governor.  4  What !  you  confess  it,  then,  you  villain  ? ' 
4  Yes,  sir  ;  but  here  is  the  money ;  I  thought  I  could 
replace  it  before  you  came  into  the  office  this  morning ; 
but,  unfortunately,  a  person  who  had  a  small  sum  of 
mine,  and  whom  I  expected  to  find  at  home  last  night, 
had  been  at  Belleville  these  two  days,  and  I  was  com- 
pelled to  go  there  this  morning;  that  made  me  late. 
Pray,  sir,  forgive  me,  —  do  not  destroy  me  !  When  I 
120 


THE  OFFICE. 


took  the  money  I  knew  I  could  return  it  this  morning  ; 
and  here  are  the  thirteen  hundred  francs  in  gold.' 
« What  do  you  mean  by  thirteen  hundred  francs  ? '  ex- 
claimed M.  Ferrand ;  '  what's  the  use  of  talking  of 
thirteen  hundred  francs  ?  You  have  stolen,  from  the 
bureau  in  my  room,  fifteen  thousand  francs  that  were  in 
a  green  pocket-book,  and  two  thousand  francs  in  gold.' 
1 1  ?  Never ! '  cried  poor  Germain,  quite  aghast.  '  I 
took  thirteen  hundred  francs  in  gold,  but  not  a  farthing 
more.  I  did  not  even  see  the  pocket-book  in  the  drawer ; 
there  were  only  two  thousand  francs,  in  gold,  in  a  box.' 
1  Oh,  shameless  liar ! '  cried  the  governor ;  '  you  confess 
to  having  plundered  thirteen  hundred  francs,  and  may 
just  as  well  have  stolen  more ;  that  will  be  for  the  law 
to  decide.  I  shall  be  without  mercy  for  such  an  infa- 
mous breach  of  trust;  you  shall  be  an  example.'  In 
fact,  my  dear  Jabulot,  the  police  came  in  at  that 
moment,  with  the  commissary's  chief  clerk,  to  draw 
up  the  depositions,  and  they  laid  hands  on  poor 
Germain ;  and  that's  all  about  it." 

"  Really,  you  do  surprise  me  !  I  feel  as  if  some  one 
had  given  me  a  thump  on  the  head.  Germain  —  Ger- 
main, who  seemed  such  an  honest  fellow,  —  a  chap 
to  whom  one  would  have  given  absolution  without 
confession." 

"  I  should  say  that  he  had  some  presentiment  of  his 
misfortune." 
«  How?" 

"  For  some  days  past  he  seemed  to  have  something  on 
his  mind." 

"  Perhaps  about  Louise." 
"  Louise  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  only  repeat  what  Mother  Se*raphin  said  this 
morning." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  What  ?  that  he  was  Louise's  lover,  and  the  father  of 
her  child." 

121 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Sly  dog  !    Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Why  —  why  —  why  —  " 

«  Pooh  !  pooh  !  " 

"  That's  not  the  case." 

"  How  do  you  know,  Master  Jabulot  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  not  a  fortnight  ago  that  Germain  told 
me,  in  confidence,  that  he  was  over  head  and  ears  in 
love  with  a  little  needle-woman,  a  very  correct  lass, 
whom  he  had  known  in  the  house  where  he  lived ;  and, 
when  he  talked  of  her,  the  tears  came  in  his  eyes." 

"  Why,  Jabulot,  you  are  getting  quite  poetical." 

"  He  says  Paublas  is  his  hero,  and  he  is  not  4  wide 
awake  '  enough  to  know  that  a  man  may  be  in  love  with 
one  woman  and  a  lover  of  another  at  the  same  time  ; 
for,  as  the  tender  F6nelon  says,  in  his  Instructions  to 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy ' : 

A  spicy  blade,  of  the  right  cock-feather, 
May  love  a  blonde  and  brunette  together.'  " 

"  I  demand  Chalamel's  head  !  " 

"  I  tell  you  that  Germain  spoke  in  earnest." 

At  this  moment  the  head  clerk  entered  the  office. 

"  Well,  M.  Jabulot,"  said  he,  "  have  you  completed 
your  rounds  ?  " 

"  Yes,  M.  Dubois ;  I  have  been  to  M.  de  Saint-Remy, 
and  he  will  come  and  pay  immediately." 

il  And  as  to  the  Countess  Macgregor  ?  " 

"  Here  is  her  answer." 

"  And  the  Countess  d'Orbigny  ?  " 

"  She  returns  her  compliments  to  our  employer.  She 
only  arrived  from  Normandy  yesterday  morning,  and  did 
not  know  that  her  reply  was  required  so  soon ;  here  is 
a  note  from  her.  I  also  called  on  the  Marquis  d'Har- 
ville's  steward,  as  he  desired  me  to  receive  the  money 
for  drawing  up  the  contract  which  I  witnessed  at  their 
house  the  other  day." 

122 


THE  OFFICE. 


"  You'should  have  told  him  there  was  no  hurry." 

"  I  did,  but  the  steward  insisted  on  paying.  Here  is 
the  money.  Oh !  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  say,  M. 
Badinot  said  that  M.  Ferrand  had  better  do  as  they 
had  agreed ;  it  was  the  best  thing  to  do." 

"  He  did  not  write  an  answer  ? " 

"  No,  sir ;  he  said  he  had  not  time." 

«  Very  well." 

"  M.  Charles  Robert  will  come  in  the  course  of  the 
morning  to  speak  to  our  master.  It  seems  that  he 
fought  a  duel  yesterday  with  the  Duke  de  Lucenay." 

"  And  is  he  wounded  ? " 

"  I  think  not,  or  else  they  would  have  told  me  so  at 
the  house." 

"  Hark  !  there's  a  carriage  stopping  at  the  door." 
"  Oh,  what  fine  horses !   how  full  of  spirits  they 
are ! " 

"  And  that  fat  English  coachman,  with  his  white  wig, 
and  brown  livery  striped  with  silver,  and  his  epaulettes 
like  a  colonel !  " 

"  It  must  be  some  ambassador's." 

"  And  the  chasseur,  look  how  he  is  bedizened  all  over 
with  silver ! " 

"  And  what  moustachios !  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Jabulot, "  it  is  the  Viscount  de  Saint-Remy's 
carriage ! " 

"  What !  is  that  the  way  he  does  it  ?    Oh,  my  !  " 
Soon  after  the  Viscount  de  Saint-Remy  entered  the 
office. 

We  have  already  described  the  handsome  appearance, 
elegance  of  style,  and  aristocratical  demeanour  of  M.  de 
Saint-Remy,  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  farm  of 
Arnouville  (the  estate  of  Madame  de  Lucenay),  where 
he  had  found  a  retreat  from  the  pursuit  of  the  bailiffs, 
Malicorne  and  Bourdin.  The  viscount,  who  entered 
unceremoniously  into  the  office,  with  his  hat  on  his 
head,  a  haughty  and  disdainful  look,  and  his  eyes  half 
123 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


closed,  asked,  with  an  air  of  extreme  superciliousness, 
and  without  looking  at  anybody: 
"  Where  is  the  notary  ? " 

"  M.  Ferrand  is  engaged  in  his  private  room,"  said  the 
chief  clerk.  "  If  you  will  please  to  wait  a  moment,  sir,  he 
will  see  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  wait  a  moment  ? " 

"  Why,  sir  —  " 

"  There  is  no  why  in  the  case,  sir.  Go  and  tell  him 
that  M.  de  Saint-Remy  is  here ;  and  I  am  much  surprised 
that  this  notary  should  make  me  dance  attendance  in  his 
waiting-room.    It  is  really  most  annoying." 

"Will  you  walk  into  this  side  room,  sir?"  said  the 
chief  clerk, "  and  I  will  inform  M.  Ferrand  this  instant." 

M.  de  Saint-Remy  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  followed 
the  head  clerk.  At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
which  seemed  very  tedious  to  him,  and  which  converted 
his  spleen  into  anger,  the  viscount  was  introduced  into 
the  notary's  private  apartment. 

Nothing  could  be  more  striking  than  the  contrast 
between  these  two  men,  both  of  them  profound  physiog- 
nomists, and  habituated  to  judge  at  a  glance  of  the  per- 
sons with  whom  they  had  business.  M.  de  Saint-Remy 
saw  Jacques  Ferrand  for  the  first  time,  and  was  struck 
with  the  expression  of  his  pallid,  harsh,  and  impassive 
features,  —  the  look  concealed  by  the  large  green  spec- 
tacles ;  the  skull  half  hid  beneath  an  old  black  silk  cap. 
The  notary  was  seated  at  his  writing-desk,  in  a  leathern 
armchair,  beside  a  low  fireplace,  almost  choked  up  with 
ashes,  and  in  which  were  two  black  and  smoking  logs  of 
wood.  Curtains  of  green  cotton,  almost  in  rags,  hung 
on  small  iron  rings  at  the  windows,  and,  concealing  the 
lower  window-panes,  threw  over  the  room,  which  was 
naturally  dark,  a  livid  and  unpleasant  hue.  Shelves  of 
black  wood  were  filled  with  deed-boxes,  all  duly  labelled. 
Some  cherry-wood  chairs,  covered  with  threadbare  Utrecht 
velvet ;  a  clock  in  a  mahogany  case ;  a  floor  yellow,  damp, 
121 


THE  OFFICE. 


and  chilling ;  a  ceiling  full  of  cracks,  and  festooned  with 
spiders'  webs,  —  such  was  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of  M. 
Jacques  Ferrand.  Hardly  had  the  viscount  made  two 
steps  into  his  cabinet,  or  spoken  a  word,  than  the  notary, 
who  knew  him  by  reputation,  conceived  an  intense  antip- 
athy towards  him.  In  the  first  place,  he  saw  in  him,  if 
we  may  say  so,  a  rival  in  rogueries ;  and  then  he  hated 
elegance,  grace,  and  youth  in  other  persons,  and  more 
especially  when  these  advantages  were  attended  with  an 
air  of  insolent  superiority.  The  notary  usually  assumed 
a  tone  of  rude  and  almost  coarse  abruptness  with  his 
clients,  who  liked  him  the  better  for  being  in  behaviour 
like  a  boor  of  the  Danube.  He  made  up  his  mind  to 
double  this  brutality  towards  M.  de  Saint-Henry,  who,  only 
knowing  the  notary  by  report  also,  expected  to  find  an 
attorney  either  familiar  or  a  fool ;  for  the  viscount 
always  imagined  men  of  such  probity  as  M.  Ferrand 
had  the  reputation  for,  as  having  an  exterior  almost 
ridiculous,  but,  so  far  from  this,  the  countenance  and 
appearance  of  the  attorney  at  law  struck  the  viscount 
with  an  undefinable  feeling,  —  half  fear,  half  aversion. 
Consequently,  his  own  resolute  character  made  M.  de 
Saint-Remy  increase  his  usual  impertinence  and  effrontery. 
The  notary  kept  his  cap  on  his  head,  and  the  viscount 
did  not  doff  his  hat,  but  exclaimed,  as  he  entered  the 
room,  with  a  loud  and  imperative  tone : 

"  Pardieu,  sir !  it  is  very  strange  that  you  should  give 
me  the  trouble  to  come  here,  instead  of  sending  to  my 
house  for  the  money  for  the  bills  I  accepted  from  the  man 
Badinot,  and  for  which  the  fellow  has  issued  execution 
against  me.  It  is  true  you  tell  me  that  you  have  also 
another  very  important  communication  to  make  to  me ; 
but  then,  surely,  that  is  no  excuse  for  making  me  wait 
for  half  an  hour  in  your  antechamber :  it  is  really  most 
annoying,  sir ! " 

M.  Ferrand,  quite  unmoved,  finished  a  calculation  he 
was  engaged  in,  wiped  his  pen  methodically  in  a  moist 
125 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


sponge  which  encircled  his  inkstand  of  cracked  earthen- 
ware, and  raised  towards  the  viscount  his  icy,  earthy, 
flat  face,  shaded  by  his  spectacles.  He  looked  like  a 
death's  head  in  which  the  eye-holes  had  been  replaced 
by  large,  fixed,  staring  green  eyeballs.  After  having 
looked  at  the  viscount  for  a  moment  or  two,  the  notary 
said  to  him,  in  a  harsh  and  abrupt  tone  : 

"  Where's  the  money  ?  " 

This  coolness  exasperated  M.  de  Saint-Re'my. 

He  —  he,  the  idol  of  the  women,  the  envy  of  the  men, 
the  model  of  the  first  society  in  Paris,  the  dreaded  duel- 
list —  produced  no  effect  on  a  wretched  attorney-at-law ! 
It  was  horrid  ;  and,  although  he  was  only  tSte-d-tete  with 
Jacques  Ferrand,  his  pride  revolted. 

"  Where  are  the  bills  ? "  inquired  the  viscount,  abruptly. 

With  the  point  of  one  of  his  fingers,  as  hard  as  iron, 
and  covered  with  red  hair,  the  notary  rapped  on  a  large 
leathern  pocket-book  which  lay  close  beside  him.  Re- 
solved on  being  as  laconic,  although  trembling  with  rage, 
M.  de  Saint-Remy  took  from  the  pocket  of  his  upper 
coat  a  Russian  leather  pocket-book,  with  gold  clasps,  from 
which  he  drew  forth  forty  notes  of  a  thousand  francs 
each,  and  showed  them  to  the  notary. 

"  How  many  are  there  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Forty  thousand  francs." 

"  Hand  them  to  me  ! ' 

"  Take  them  !  and  let  this  have  a  speedy  termination. 
Ply  your  trade,  pay  yourself,  and  give  me  the  bills,"  said 
the  viscount,  as  he  threw  the  notes  on  the  table,  with  an 
impatient  air. 

The  notary  took  up  the  bank-notes,  rose,  went  close 
to  the  window  to  examine  them,  turning  and  re-turning 
them  over  and  over,  one  by  one,  with  an  attention  so 
scrupulous,  and  really  so  insulting  for  M.  de  Saint-R^my, 
that  the  viscount  actually  turned  pale  with  rage.  J acques 
Ferrand,  as  if  he  had  guessed  the  thoughts  which  were 
passing  in  the  viscount's  mind,  shook  his  head,  turned 
126 


THE  OFFICE. 

half  towards  him,  and  said  to  him,  with  an  indefinable 
accent : 

"  I  have  seen  —  " 

M.  de  Saint-Remy,  confused  for  a  moment,  said,  drily  : 
"What?" 

"Forged  bank-notes,"  replied  the  notary,  continu- 
ing his  scrutiny  of  a  note,  which  he  had  not  yet  ex- 
amined. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  remark,  sir  ?  " 

Jacques  Ferrand  paused  for  a  moment,  looked  stead- 
fastly at  the  viscount  through  his  glasses,  then,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  slightly,  he  continued  to  investigate  the 
notes,  without  uttering  a  syllable. 

"  Monsieur  Notary !  I  would  wish  you  to  learn  that, 
when  I  ask  a  question,  I  have  an  answer ! "  cried  M.  de 
Saint-Remy,  exasperated  at  the  coolness  of  Jacques 
Ferrand. 

"  These  notes  are  good,"  said  the  notary,  turning 
towards  his  bureau,  whence  he  took  a  small  bundle  of 
stamped  papers,  to  which  were  annexed  two  bills  of  ex- 
change ;  then,  putting  down  one  of  the  bank-notes  for 
one  thousand  francs  and  three  rouleaus,  of  one  hundred 
francs  each,  on  the  table,  he  said  to  M.  de  Saint-Remy, 
pointing  to  the  money  and  the  bills  with  his  finger : 

"  Here's  your  change  out  of  the  forty  thousand  francs  ; 
my  client  has  desired  me  to  deduct  the  expenses." 

The  viscount  had  contained  himself  with  great  diffi- 
culty whilst  Jacques  Ferrand  was  making  out  the 
account,  and,  instead  of  taking  up  the  money,  he  ex- 
claimed, in  a  voice  that  literally  shook  with  passion : 

"  I  beg  to  know,  sir,  what  you  meant  by  saying,  whilst 
you  looked  at  the  bank-notes  which  I  handed  to  you, 
that  you  '  had  seen  forged  notes  ?  '  " 

"  What  I  meant?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Because  I  sent  for  you  to  come  here  on  a  matter  of 
forgery." 

127 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARTS. 


And  the  notary  fixed  his  green  spectacles  on  the 
viscount. 

"  And  how  can  this  forgery  in  any  way  affect  me  ?  " 

After  a  moment's  silence,  M.  Ferrand  said  to  the 
viscount,  with  a  stern  air : 

"Are  you  aware,  sir,  of  the  duties  which  a  notary 
fulfils  ? " 

"  Those  duties  appear  to  me,  sir,  very  simple  indeed ; 
just  now  I  had  forty  thousand  francs,  now  I  have 
thirteen  hundred  francs  left." 

"  You  are  facetious,  sir ;  I  will  tell  you  that  a  notary 
is,  in  temporal  matters,  what  a  confessor  is  in  spiritual 
affairs;  by  virtue  of  his  position,  he  often  becomes 
possessed  of  disgraceful  secrets." 

"  Go  on,  I  beg,  sir." 

"  He  is  often  brought  into  contact  with  rogues." 
"  Go  on,  sir." 

"He  ought,  as  well  as  he  can,  to  prevent  an  hon- 
ourable name  from  being  dragged  through  the  mud." 
"  What  is  all  this  to  me?" 

"  Your  father's  name  is  deservedly  respected ;  you, 
sir,  dishonour  it." 

"  How  dare  you,  sir,  to  address  such  language 
to  me?" 

"  But  for  the  interest  which  the  gentleman,  of  whom 
I  speak,  inspires  in  the  minds  of  all  honest  men,  instead 
of  being  summoned  before  me,  you  would,  at  this 
moment,  be  standing  before  a  police-magistrate." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  Two  months  since,  you  discounted,  through  an 
agent,  a  bill  for  fifty-eight  thousand  francs  (2,320Z.), 
accepted  by  the  house  of  Meulaert  &  Company,  of 
Hamburg,  in  favour  of  a  certain  William  Smith,  payable 
in  three  months,  at  the  bank  of  M.  Grimaldi,  of  Paris." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  That  bill  was  a  forgery." 
"  Impossible ! " 

128 


THE  OFFiCE. 


"  That  bill  was  a  forgery  !  the  firm  of  Meulaert  never 
gave  such  a  bill  to  William  Smith,  and  never  had  such  a 
transaction  with  such  an  individual." 

"  Can  this  be  true  ? "  exclaimed  M.  de  Saint-R6my, 
with  equal  surprise  and  indignation  ;  "  then  I  have  been 
most  infamously  deceived,  sir,  for  I  took  the  bill  as 
ready  money." 

"  From  whom  ?  " 

"  From  M.  William  Smith  himself ;  the  house  of 
Meulaert  is  so  well  known,  and  I  was  so  firmly  con- 
vinced myself  of  the  honour  of  M.  William  Smith,  that 
I  took  the  bill  in  payment  of  a  debt  he  owed  me." 

"  William  Smith  never  existed,  —  he  is  an  imaginary 
personage." 

"  Sir,  you  insult  me !  " 

"  His  signature  is  forged  and  false,  as  well  as  all  the 
rest  of  the  bill." 

"  I  assert  that  M.  William  Smith  is  alive  ;  but  I  must 
have  been  the  dupe  of  e,  horrible  abuse  of  confidence." 

"  Poor  young  man !  " 

"  Explain  yourself,  sir." 

"The  actual  holder  of  the  bill  is  convinced  you 
committed  the  forgery." 
"Sir!" 

"  He  declares  that  he  has  proof  of  this ;  and  he  came 
to  me  the  day  before  yesterday,  requesting  me  to  see 
you,  and  offer  to  give  up  this  forged  document,  under 
certain  conditions.  Up  to  this  point  all  was  straightfor- 
ward, but  what  follows  is  not  so,  and  I  only  speak  to 
you  now  according  to  my  instructions.  He  requires  one 
hundred  thousand  francs  (4,000Z.)  down  this  very  day, 
or  else  to-morrow,  at  twelve  o'clock  at  noon,  the  forged 
bill  will  be  handed  over  to  the  king's  attorney-general." 

"  This  is  infamous,  sir  ! " 

"  It  is  more,  —  it  is  absurd.    You  are  a  ruined  man ; 
you  were  all  but  arrested  for  the  sum  which  you  have 
just  paid  me,  and  which  you  have  scraped  up  I  cannot 
129 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


tell  from  where ;  and  this  I  have  told  to  the  holder  of 
the  bill,  who  replied,  that  a  certain  great  and  very- 
rich  lady  would  not  allow  you  to  remain  in  this 
embarrassment." 

"  Enough,  sir !  enough  ! " 

"  More  infamous  !  more  absurd !  agreed." 

"  Well,  sir,  and  what  is  required  of  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  work  out  infamously  an  action  infamously 
commenced.  I  have  consented  to  communicate  this  pro- 
position to  you,  although  it  disgusts  me,  as  an  honest  man 
ought  to  feel  disgust  on  such  an  occasion ;  but  now  it 
is  your  affair.  If  you  are  guilty,  choose  between  a  crim- 
inal court  and  the  means  of  ransom  offered  to  you ;  my 
duty  is  only  an  official  one,  and  I  will  not  dirty  my 
fingers  any  further  in  so  foul  a  transaction.  The  third 
party  is  called  M.  Petit-Jean,  an  oil  merchant,  who  lives 
on  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  Quai  de  Billy,  No.  10.  Make 
your  arrangements  with  him  ;  you  are  fit  to  meet  if  you 
are  a  forger,  as  he  declares." 

M.  de  Saint-Remy  had  entered  Jacques  Ferrand's 
study  with  a  lip  all  scorn,  and  a  head  all  pride. 
Although  he  had  in  his  life  committed  some  shame- 
ful actions,  he  still  retained  a  certain  elevation  of 
race,  and  an  instinctive  courage,  which  had  never  for- 
saken him.  At  the  beginning  of  this  conversation, 
considering  the  notary  as  an  adversary  beneath  him, 
he  had  been  content  to  treat  him  with  disdain ;  but, 
when  Jacques  Ferrand  began  to  talk  of  forgery,  he  felt 
annihilated ;  in  his  turn  he  felt  himself  rode  over  by 
the  notary.  But  for  the  entire  command  of  self  which 
he  possessed,  he  could  not  have  concealed  the  terrible 
impression  which  this  unexpected  revelation  disclosed 
to  him,  for  it  might  have  incalculable  consequences  to 
him,  —  consequences  unsuspected  by  the  notary  himself. 
After  a  moment  of  silence  and  reflection,  he  resigned 
himself,  —  he,  so  haughty,  so  irritable,  so  vain  of  his 
self-possession !  —  to  beg  of  this  coarse  man,  who  had 
130* 


THE  OFFICE. 


so  roughly  addressed  to  him  the  stern  language  of 
probity : 

"  Sir,  you  give  me  a  proof  of  your  interest,  for  which 
I  thank  you,  and  I  regret  that  any  hasty  expressions 
should  have  escaped  me,"  said  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  with 
a  tone  of  cordiality. 

"  I  do  not  take  the  slightest  interest  in  or  for  you," 
replied  the  notary,  brutally.  "  Your  father  is  the  soul 
of  honour,  and  I  would  not  wish  that  in  the  depth  of 
that  solitude  in  which  he  lives,  as  they  tell  me,  at 
Angers,  he  should  learn  that  his  name  has  been  exposed, 
tarnished,  degraded,  in  a  court  of  justice,  that's  all." 

"  I  repeat  to  you,  sir,  that  I  am  incapable  of  the 
infamy  which  is  attributed  to  me." 

"  You  may  tell  that  to  M.  Petit- Jean." 

"  But  I  confess  that,  in  the  absence  of  M.  Smith,  who 
has  so  unworthily  abused  my  confidence,  that  —  " 

"  The  scoundrel  Smith  !  " 

"The  absence  of  M.  Smith  places  me  in  a  cruel  em- 
barrassment. I  am  innocent,  —  let  them  accuse  me,  I 
will  prove  myself  guiltless  ;  but  such  an  accusation,  even, 
must  always  disgrace  a  gentleman." 

«  Well  ?  " 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  use  the  sum  I  have  just  handed 
fco  you  in  part  payment  to  the  person  who  holds  the 
acceptance." 

"  That  money  belongs  to  a  client  and  is  sacred." 

"  In  two  or  three  days  I  will  repay  you." 

"  You  will  not  be  able." 

"  I  have  resources." 

"  You  have  none  ;  not  visible  at  least.  Your  house- 
hold furniture,  your  horses,  do  not  belong  to  you,  as  you 
declare ;  this  has  to  me  the  appearance  of  a  disgraceful 
fraud." 

"  You  are  severe,  sir  ;  but,  admitting  what  you  say,  do 
you  not  suppose  that  I  shall  turn  everything  into  money 
in  such  a  desperate  extremity?    Only,  as  it  will  be 
131 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


impossible  for  me  to  procure,  between  this  and  noon  to- 
morrow, the  one  hundred  thousand  francs,  I  entreat  you 
to  employ  the  money  I  have  just  handed  to  you  in 
procuring  this  unfortunate  bill,  or,  at  least,  as  you  are 
very  rich,  advance  the  money.  Do  not  leave  me  in  such 
a  position." 

"  Me  ?    Why,  is  the  man  mad  ?  " 

"  Sir,  I  beseech  you,  in  my  father's  name,  which  you 
have  mentioned  to  me,  be  so  kind  as  to  —  " 

"  I  am  kind  to  those  who  deserve  it,"  said  the  notary, 
harshly.  "  An  honest  man  myself,  I  hate  swindlers,  and 
should  not  be  sorry  to  see  one  of  those  high-minded 
gentlemen,  without  faith  or  honour,  impious  and  repro- 
bate, put  in  the  pillory,  as  an  example  to  others ;  but  I 
hear  your  horses,  who  are  impatient  to  depart,  M.  le 
Vicomte,"  said  the  notary,  with  a  smile  that  displayed 
his  black  fangs. 

At  this  moment  some  one  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
apartment. 

"  Who's  there  ?  "  inquired  Jacques  Ferrand. 
"  Madame  the  Countess  d'Orbigny,"  said  the  chief 
clerk. 

"  Request  her  to  wait  a  moment." 

"The  stepmother  of  the  Marchioness  d'Harville?" 
exclaimed  M.  de  Saint-Remy. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  she  has  an  appointment  with  me,  —  so, 
your  servant,  sir." 

"  Not  a  word  of  this,  sir !  "  cried  M.  de  Saint-Remy, 
in  a  menacing  voice. 

"I  told  you,  sir,  that  a  notary  is  as  discreet  as  a 
confessor." 

Jacques  Ferrand  rang,  and  the  clerk  appeared. 

"  Show  Madame  d'Orbigny  in."  Then,  addressing 
the  viscount,  "  Take  these  thirteen  hundred  francs,  sir  ; 
they  will  be  something  towards  an  arrangement  with 
M.  Petit-Jean." 

Madame  d'Orbigny  (formerly  Madame  Roland)  en- 
132 


THE  OFFJCE. 


tered  at  the  moment  when  M.  de  Saint-Remy  went  out, 
his  features  convulsed  with  rage  at  having  so  uselessly 
humiliated  himself  before  the  notary. 

"  Ah,  good  day,  M.  de  Saint-Remy,"  said  Madame 
d'Orbigny  ;  "  what  a  time  it  is  since  I  saw  you !  " 

"  Why,  madame,  since  D'Harville's  marriage,  at  which 
I  was  present,  I  do  not  think  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you,"  said  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  bowing,  and 
assuming  an  affable  and  smiling  demeanour.  "  You 
have  remained  in  Normandy  ever  since,  I  think  ? " 

"  Why,  yes !  M.  d'Orbigny  will  only  live  in  the 
country,  and  what  he  likes  I  like ;  so  you  see  in  me  a 
complete  country  wife.  I  have  not  been  in  Paris  since 
the  marriage  of  my  dear  stepdaughter  with  that  excellent 
M.  d'Harville.    Do  you  see  him  frequently  ? " 

"  D'Harville  has  grown  very  sullen  and  morose ;  he  is 
seldom  seen  in  the  world,"  said  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  with 
something  like  impatience,  for  the  conversation  was 
most  irksome  to  him,  both  because  of  its  untimeliness 
and  that  the  notary  seemed  amused  at  it ;  but  Madame 
d'Harville's  stepmother,  enchanted  at  thus  meeting  with 
a  dandy  of  the  first  water,  was  not  the  woman  to  allow 
her  prey  to  escape  her  so  easily. 

"  And  my  dear  stepdaughter,"  she  continued,  —  "  she, 
I  hope,  is  not  as  morose  as  her  husband  ? " 

"  Madame  d'Harville  is  all  the  fashion,  and  has  the 
world  at  her  feet,  as  a  lovely  woman  should  have.  But 
I  take  up  your  time,  and  —  " 

"  Not  at  all,  I  assure  you.  It  is  quite  agreeable  to  me 
to  meet  the  '  observed  of  all  observers,'  —  the  mon- 
arch of  fashion,  —  for,  in  ten  minutes,  I  shall  be  as  au 
fait  of  Paris  as  if  I  had  never  left  it.  And  your  dear 
M.  de  Lucenay,  who  was  also  present  at  M.  d'Harville's 
marriage  ? " 

"  A  still  greater  oddity.  He  has  been  travelling  in 
the  East,  and  returned  in  time  to  receive  a  sword-wound 
yesterday,  —  nothing  serious,  though." 

133 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Poor  dear  duke  !  And  his  wife,  always  lovely  and 
fascinating  ?  " 

"  Madame,  I  have  the  honour  to  be  one  of  her  pro- 
foundest  admirers,  and  my  testimony  would,  therefore, 
be  received  with  suspicion.  I  beg,  on  your  return  to 
Aubiers,  you  will  not  forget  my  regards  to  M.  d'Orbigny." 

"  He  will,  I  am  sure,  be  most  sensible  of  your  kind- 
ness ;  he  often  talks  of  you,  and  says  you  remind  him  of 
the  Duke  de  Lauzun." 

"  His  comparison  is  a  eulogy  in  itself,  but,  unfor- 
tunately, infinitely  more  flattering  than  true.  Adieu, 
madame,  for  I  fear  I  must  not  ask  to  be  allowed  to  pay 
my  respects  to  you  before  your  departure." 

"  I  should  lament  to  give  you  the  trouble  of  calling 
on  me,  for  I  have  pitched  my  tent  for  a  few  days  in  a 
furnished  hQtel ;  but  if,  in  the  summer  or  autumn,  you 
should  be  passing  our  way,  en  route  to  some  of  those 
fashionable  chateaus  where  the  leaders  of  ton  dispute 
the  pleasure  of  receiving  you,  pray  give  us  a  few  days  of 
your  society,  if  it  be  only  by  way  of  contrast,  and  to  rest 
yourself  with  us  poor  rustic  folk  from  the  whirl  of  your 
high  life  of  fashion  and  distinction ;  for  where  you  are 
it  is  always  delightful  to  be." 

"  Madame ! " 

"  I  need  not  say  how  delighted  M.  d'Orbigny  and 
myself  would  be  to  receive  you ;  but  adieu,  sir,  I  fear 
the  kind  attorney  (she  pointed  to  Ferrand)  will  grow 
impatient  at  our  gossip." 

"  Quite  the  reverse,  madame,  quite  the  reverse,"  said 
Ferrand,  with  an  emphasis  that  redoubled  the  repressed 
rage  of  M.  de  Saint-Remy. 

"  Is  not  M.  Ferrand  a  terrible  man  ? "  said  Madame 
d'Orbigny,  affectedly.  "  Mind  now,  I  tell  you,  that,  if 
he  has  charge  of  your  affairs,  he  will  scold  you  awfully. 
He  is  the  most  unpitying  man  —  But  that's  my  non- 
sense ;  on  the  contrary,  why,  such  an  exquisite  as  you  to 
have  M.  Ferrand  for  his  solicitor  is  a  proof  of  reforma- 
134 


THE  OFFICE. 


tion,  for  we  know  very  well  that  he  never  allows  his 
clients  to  do  foolish  things ;  if  they  do,  he  gives  up 
their  business.  Oh,  he  will  not  be  everybody's  lawyer!" 
Then,  turning  to  Jacques  Ferrand  :  "  Do  you  know,  most 
puritanical  solicitor,  that  you  have  made  a  splendid  con- 
version there  ?  If  you  reform  the  exquisite  of  exquisites, 
the  King  of  the  Mode  —  " 

"  It  is  really  a  conversion,  madame.  The  viscount  left 
my  study  a  very  different  man  from  what  he  entered  it." 

"  There,  I  tell  you  that  you  perform  miracles !  " 

"Ah,  madame,  you  flatter  me,"  said  Jacques  Ferrand, 
with  emphasis. 

M.  de  Saint-Remy  made  a  low  bow  to  Madame 
d'Orbigny,  and  then,  as  he  left  the  notary,  desirous  of 
trying  once  more  to  excite  his  pity,  he  said  to  him,  in  a 
careless  tone,  which,  however,  betrayed  deep  anxiety : 

"  Then,  my  dear  M.  Ferrand,  you  will  not  grant  me 
the  favour  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Some  wild  scheme,  no  doubt.  Be  inexorable,  my 
dear  Puritan,"  cried  Madame  d'Orbigny,  laughing. 

"  You  hear,  sir  ?  I  must  not  contradict  such  a  hand- 
some lady." 

"  My  dear  M.  Ferrand,  let  us  speak  seriously  of  serious 
things,  and,  you  know,  this  is  a  most  serious  matter. 
Do  you  really  refuse  me  ? "  inquired  the  viscount,  with 
an  anxiety  which  he  could  not  altogether  dissemble. 

The  notary  was  cruel  enough  to  appear  to  hesitate ; 
M.  de  Saint-Remy  had  an  instant's  hope. 

"  What,  man  of  iron,  do  you  yield  ? "  said  Madame 
d'Harville's  stepmother,  laughing  still.  "  Do  you,  too, 
yield  to  the  charm  of  the  irresistible  ?  " 

"  Ma  foi,  madame  !  I  was  on  the  point  of  yielding,  as 
you  say ;  but  you  make  me  blush  for  my  weakness," 
added  M.  Ferrand.  And  then,  addressing  himself  to 
the  viscount,  he  said  to  him,  with  an  accent  of  which  • 
Saint-Remy  felt  all  the  meaning,  "  Well  then,  seriously," 
(and  he  dwelt  on  the  word),  "  it  is  impossible." 

135 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"Ah,  the  Puritan!  Hark  to  the  Puritan!"  said 
Madame  d'Orbigny. 

"  See  M.  Petit-Jean.  He  will  think  precisely  as  I  do, 
I  am  sure,  and,  like  me,  will  say  to  you  '  No ! "' 

M.  de  Saint-Remy  rushed  out  in  despair. 

After  a  moment's  reflection  he  said  to  himself,  "  It 
must  be  so  ! "  Then  he  added,  addressing  his  chasseur, 
who  was  standing  with  the  door  of  his  carriage  opened, 
"  To  the  HStel  de  Lucenay." 

Whilst  M.  de  Saint-Remy  is  on  his  way  to  see  the 
duchess,  we  will  present  the  reader  at  the  interview  be- 
tween M.  Ferrand  and  the  stepmother  of  Madame  d'Har- 
ville. 


136 


CHAPTER  Y. 


THE  CLIENTS. 

The  reader  may  have  forgotten  the  portrait  of  the 
stepmother  of  Madame  d'Harville  as  drawn  by  the 
latter.  Let  us  then  repeat,  that  Madame  d'Orbigny  was 
a  slight,  fair,  delicate  woman,  with  eyelashes  almost 
white,  round  and  palish  blue  eyes,  with  a  soft  voice,  a 
hypocritical  air,  insidious  and  insinuating  manners.  Any 
one  who  studied  her  treacherous  and  perfidious  counte- 
nance would  detect  therein  craft  and  cruelty. 

"  What  a  delightful  young  man  M.  de  Saint-Remy  is !  " 
said  Madame  d'Orbigny  to  Jacques  Ferrand,  when  the 
viscount  had  left  them. 

"  Delightful !  But,  madame,  let  us  now  proceed  to  our 
business.  You  wrote  to  me  from  Normandy  that  you 
desired  to  consult  me  upon  most  serious  matters." 

"  Have  you  not  always  been  my  adviser  ever  since  the 
worthy  Doctor  Polidori  introduced  me  to  you  ?  By  the 
way,  have  you  heard  from  him  recently  ? "  inquired 
Madame  d'Orbigny,  with  an  air  of  complete  carelessness. 

"  Since  he  left  Paris  he  has  not  written  me  a  single 
line,"  replied  the  notary,  with  an  air  of  similar  indiffer- 
ence. 

Let  the  reader  understand  that  these  two  persons  lied 
most  unequivocally  to  each  other.  The  notary  had  seen 
Polidori  (one  of  his  two  accomplices)  recently,  and  had 
proposed  to  him  to  go  to  Asnieres,  to  the  Martials,  the 
fresh-water  pirates,  of  whom  we  shall  presently  speak,  — 
had  proposed  to  him,  we  say,  to  poison  Louise  Morel, 
137 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


under  the  name  of  Doctor  Vincent.  Madame  d'Har- 
ville's  stepmother,  on  her  side,  had  come  to  Paris  in 
order  to  have  a  secret  meeting  with  this  scoundrel,  who 
had  been  for  a  long  time  concealed,  as  we  have  said, 
under  the  name  of  Ce'sar  Bradamanti. 

"  But  it  is  not  the  good  doctor  of  whom  we  have  to 
discourse,"  continued  Madame  d'Harville's  stepmother. 
"  You  see  me  very  uneasy.  My  husband  is  indisposed  ; 
his  health  becomes  weaker  and  weaker  every  day.  With- 
out experiencing  serious  alarm,  his  condition  gives  me 
much  concern,  —  or  rather,  gives  him  much  concern," 
said  Madame  d'Orbigny,  drying  her  eyes,  which  were 
slightly  moistened. 

"  What  is  the  business,  madame  ?  " 

"  He  is  constantly  talking  of  making  his  last  arrange- 
ments, —  of  his  will."  Here  Madame  d'Orbigny  concealed 
her  face  in  her  pocket-handkerchief  for  some  minutes. 

"  It  is  very  afflicting,  no  doubt,"  said  the  notary  ;  "  but 
the  precaution  has  nothing  terrible  in  itself.  And  what 
may  be  M.  d'Orbigny's  intentions,  madame  ?  " 

"  Dear  sir  !  How  do  I  know  ?  You  may  suppose  that 
when  he  commences  the  subject  I  do  not  allow  him  to 
dwell  on  it  long." 

"  Well,  then,  he  has  not  up  to  this  time  told  you 
anything  positive  ? " 

"  I  think,"  replied  Madame  d'Orbigny,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  —  "I  think  that  he  wishes  to  leave  me  not  only 
all  that  the  law  will  allow  him  to  bequeath  to  me, 
but  —  But,  really,  I  pray  of  you,  do  not  let  us  talk  of 
that." 

«  Of  what,  then,  shall  we  talk  ? " 

"  Alas,  you  are  right,  pitiless  man  !  I  must,  in  spite 
of  myself,  return  to  the  sad  subject  that  brings  me  here 
to  see  you.  Well,  then,  M.  d'Orbigny's  inclination  ex- 
tends so  far  that  he  desires  to  sell  a  part  of  his  estate 
and  present  me  with  a  large  sum." 

"  But  his  daughter  —  his  daughter  ?  "  exclaimed  M. 
13S 


THE  CLIENTS. 


Ferrand,  harshly.  "  I  must  tell  you  that,  during  the 
last  year,  M.  d'Harville  has  placed  his  affairs  in  my 
hands,  and  I  have  lately  purchased  a  splendid  estate  for 
him.  You  know  my  blunt  way  of  doing  business  ? 
Whether  M.  d'Harville  is  my  client  or  not  is  no  matter. 
I  stand  up  only  for  justice.  If  your  husband  makes  up 
his  mind  to  behave  to  his  daughter  in  a  way  that  I  do 
not  approve,  I  tell  you  plainly  he  must  not  reckon  on  my 
assistance.  Upright  and  downright,  such  has  always 
been  my  line  of  conduct." 

"  And  mine,  also !  Therefore  it  is  that  I  am  always 
saying  to  my  husband  what  you  now  say  to  me,  4  Your 
daughter  has  behaved  very  ill  to  you,  that  is  but  too 
true  ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  disinherit 
her.'" 

"  Very  good,  —  quite  right !  And  what  answer  does 
he  make  to  that  ?  " 

"  He  replies, '  I  shall  leave  my  daughter  twenty-five 
thousand  livres  of  annual  income  (1,000Z.)  ;  she  had 
more  than  a  million  (40,000?.)  from  her  mother.  Her 
husband  has  an  enormous  fortune  of  his  own;  and, 
therefore,  why  should  I  not  leave  you  the  residue  of 
my  fortune,  —  you,  my  tender  love,  the  sole  support, 
the  only  comfort  of  my  declining  years,  my  guardian 
angel  ? '  I  repeat  these  very  flattering  words  to  you," 
said  Madame  d'Orbigny,  with  an  air  of  modesty,  "to 
prove  to  you  how  kind  M.  d'Orbigny  is  to  me.  But,  in 
spite  of  that,  I  have  always  refused  his  offers ;  and,  as 
he  perceives  that,  he  has  compelled  me  to  come  and  seek 
you." 

"  But  I  do  not  know  M.  d'Orbigny." 
"  But  he,  like  all  the  world,  knows  your  high  char- 
acter." 

"  But  why  should  he  send  you  to  me?" 

"  To  put  an  end  to  all  my  scruples  and  refusals,  he 
said  to  me,  '  I  will  not  ask  you  to  consult  my  notary, 
because  you  will  think  him  too  much  devoted  to  my 
139 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


service ;  but  I  will  trust  myself  entirely  to  the  decision 
of  a  man  of  whose  extreme  probity  of  character  I  have 
heard  you  so  frequently  speak  in  praise,  —  M.  Jacques 
Ferrand.  If  he  considers  your  delicacy  compromised 
by  your  consent  to  my  wishes,  we  will  not  say  another 
word  on  the  subject ;  otherwise,  you  must  comply  with- 
out a  word.'  '  I  consent ! '  I  replied  to  M.  d'Orbigny. 
And  so  now  you  are  the  arbitrator  between  us.  '  If  M. 
Ferrand  approves,'  added  my  husband,  '  I  will  send  him 
ample  power  to  realise  in  my  name  my  rents  and  invest- 
ments, and  he  shall  keep  the  proceeds  in  his  hands  as 
a  deposit;  and  thus,  after  my  decease,  my  tender  love, 
you  will  at  least  have  an  existence  worthy  of  you. ' " 

Perhaps  M.  Ferrand  never  had  greater  need  of  his 
spectacles  than  at  this  moment ;  for,  had  he  not  worn 
them,  Madame  d'Orbigny  would  doubtless  have  been 
struck  with  the  sparkle  of  the  notary's  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  dart  fire  when  the  word  deposit  was  pro- 
nounced.   However,  he  replied,  in  his  usual  coarse  way : 

"It  is  very  tiresome.  This  is  the  tenth  or  twelfth 
time  that  I  have  been  made  the  arbitrator  in  a  similar 
matter,  always  under  the  pretence  of  my  honesty, — 
that  is  the  only  word  in  people's  mouths.  My  honesty ! 
—  my  honesty  !  What  a  fine  quality,  forsooth  !  — 
which  only  brings  me  in  a  great  deal  of  tiresome 
trouble." 

"  My  good  M.  Ferrand !  Come,  do  not  repulse  me. 
You  will  write  at  once  to  M.  d'Orbigny,  who  only 
awaits  your  letter  to  send  you  full  powers  to  act  for 
him,  and  to  realise  the  sum  required." 

"  Which  amounts  to  how  much  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  think  he  said  four  or  five  hundred  thousand 
francs"  (16,0007.  or  20,000?.). 

"  The  sum,  after  all,  is  not  so  much  as  I  thought. 
You  are  devoted  to  M.  d'Orbigny.  His  daughter  is 
very  rich ;  you  have  nothing.  That  is  not  just ;  and 
I  really  think  you  should  accept  it." 

140 


THE  CLIENTS. 


"  Really,  do  you  think  so,  indeed  ? "  said  Madame 
d'Orbigny,  who  was  the  dupe,  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
of  the  proverbial  probity  of  the  notary,  and  who  had 
not  been  enlightened  by  Polidori  in  this  particular. 

"  You  may  accept,"  he  repeated. 

"  I  will  accept,  then,"  said  Madame  d'Orbigny,  with 
a  sigh. 

The  chief  clerk  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Who  is  there  ? "  inquired  M.  Ferrand. 

"  Madame  the  Countess  Macgregor." 

"  Request  her  to  wait  a  moment." 

"  I  will  go,  then,  my  dear  M.  Ferrand,"  said  Madame 
d'Orbigny.  "  You  will  write  to  my  husband,  since  he 
wishes  it,  and  he  will  send  you  the  requisite  authority 
by  return  of  post?" 

"  I  will  write." 

"  Adieu,  my  worthy  and  excellent  counsellor  !  " 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  know,  you  people  of  the  world,  how 
disagreeable  it  is  to  take  charge  of  such  deposits, — 
the  responsibility  which  we  then  assume.  I  tell  you  that 
there  is  nothing  more  detestable  in  the  world  than  this 
fine  character  for  probity,  which  brings  down  upon 
one  all  these  turmoils  and  troubles." 

"  And  the  admiration  of  all  good  people." 

"  Thank  Heaven,  I  place  otherwise  than  here  below 
the  hopes  of  the  reward  at  which  I  aim ! "  said  M. 
Ferrand,  in  a  hypocritical  tone. 

To  Madame  d'Orbigny  succeeded  Sarah  Macgregor. 

Sarah  entered  the  cabinet  of  the  notary  with  her 
usual  coolness  and  assurance.  Jacques  Ferrand  did 
not  know  her,  nor  the  motives  of  her  visit,  and  he 
therefore  scrutinised  her  carefully  in  the  hope  of 
catching  another  dupe.  He  looked  most  attentively  at 
the  countess ;  and,  despite  the  imperturbability  of  this 
marble-fronted  woman,  he  observed  a  slight  working  of 
the  eyebrows,  which  betrayed  a  repressed  embarrass- 
ment. The  notary  rose  from  his  seat,  handed  a  chair, 
141 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


and,  motioning  to  Sarah  to  sit  down,  thus  accosted 
her  : 

"  You  have  requested  of  me,  madame,  an  interview  for 
to-day.  I  was  very  much  engaged  yesterday,  and  could 
not  reply  until  this  morning.  I  beg  you  will  accept  my 
apology  for  the  delay." 

"  I  was  desirous  of  seeing  you,  sir,  on  a  matter  of  the 
greatest  importance.  Your  reputation  for  honesty,  kind- 
ness, and  complaisance  has  made  me  hope  that  the  step 
I  have  taken  with  you  will  be  successful." 

The  notary  bent  forward  slightly  in  his  chair. 

"  I  know,  sir,  that  your  discretion  is  perfect." 

"  It  is  my  duty,  madame." 

"  You  are,  sir,  a  man  of  rigid,  moral,  and  incorruptible 
character." 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  Yet,  sir,  if  you  were  told  that  it  depended  on  you  to 
restore  life  —  more  than  life,  reason  —  to  an  unhappy 
mother,  should  you  have  the  courage  to  refuse  her  ? " 

"  If  you  will  state  the  circumstances,  madame,  I  shall 
be  better  able  to  reply." 

"  It  is  fourteen  years  since,  at  the  end  of  the  month 
of  December,  1824,  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  and 
dressed  in  deep  mourning,  came  to  ask  you  to  take,  by 
way  of  life-annuity,  the  sum  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs  (6,000Z.),  which  it  was  desired  should 
be  sunk  in  favour  of  a  child  of  three  years  of  age,  whose 
parents  were  desirous  of  remaining  unknown." 

"  Well,  madame  ? "  said  the  notary,  careful  not  to 
reply  in  the  affirmative. 

"  You  assented,  and  took  charge  of  this  sum,  agreeing 
to  insure  the  child  a  yearly  pension  of  eight  thousand 
francs  (320Z.).  Half  this  income  was  to  accumulate  for 
the  child's  benefit  until  of  age ;  the  other  half  was  to 
be  paid  by  you  to  the  person  who  took  care  of  this  little 
girl." 

«  Well,  madame  ? " 

142 


THE  CLIENTS. 


"At  the  end  of  two  years,"  said  Sarah,  unable  to 
repress  a  slight  emotion,  "  on  the  28th  of  November, 
1827,  the  child  died." 

"  Before  we  proceed  any  farther,  madame,  with  this 
conversation,  I  must  know  what  interest  you  take  in 
this  matter  ? " 

"  The  mother  of  this  little  girl,  sir,  was  —  my  sister.1 
I  have  here  proofs  of  what  I  advance :  the  declaration 
of  the  poor  child's  death,  the  letters  of  the  person  who 
took  charge  of  her,  and  the  acknowledgment  of  one  of 
your  clients  with  whom  you  have  placed  the  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  francs." 

"  Allow  me  to  see  those  papers,  madame." 

Somewhat  astonished  at  not  being  believed  on  her 
word,  Sarah  drew  from  a  pocketbook  several  papers, 
which  the  notary  examined  with  great  attention. 

"  Well,  madame,  what  do  you  desire  ?  The  declara- 
tion of  decease  is  perfectly  in  order.  The  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs  came  to  my  client,  M.  Petit-Jean, 
on  the  death  of  the  child.  It  is  one  of  the  chances  of 
life-annuities,  as  I  remarked  to  the  person  who  placed 
the  affair  in  my  hands.  As  to  the  pension,  it  was  duly 
paid  by  me  up  to  the  time  of  the  child's  decease." 

"  I  am  ready  to  declare,  sir,  that  nothing  could  be 
more  satisfactory  than  your  conduct  throughout  the 
whole  of  the  affair.  The  female  who  had  charge  of 
the  child  is  also  entitled  to  our  gratitude,  for  she 
took  the  greatest  care  of  my  poor  little  niece." 

"  True,  madame.  And  I  was  so  much  satisfied  with 
her  conduct,  that,  seeing  her  out  of  place  after  the  death 
of  the  child,  I  took  her  into  my  employment ;  and,  since 
that  time,  she  has  remained  with  me." 

"  Is  Madame  Se'raphin  in  your  service,  sir  ?  " 

1  It  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  to  remind  the  reader  that  the  child  in  ques- 
tion is  Fleur-de-Marie,  daughter  of  Rodolph  and  Sarah,  and  that  the  latter, 
in  speaking  of  a  pretended  sister,  tells  a  falsehood  necessary  for  her  plans, 
as  will  be  seen.  Sarah  was  convinced,  as  was  Rodolph,  also,  of  the  death  of 
the  little  girl. 

143 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  She  has  been  my  housekeeper  these  fourteen  years, 
and  I  must  ever  speak  in  her  praise." 

"  Since  that  is  the  case,  sir,  she  may  be  of  the  greatest 
use  to  us,  if  you  will  kindly  grant  me  a  request,  which 
may  appear  strange,  perhaps  even  culpable,  at  first  sight, 
but  when  you  know  the  motive  —  " 

"  A  culpable  request,  madame,  is  what  I  cannot  believe 
you  capable  of  addressing  to  me." 

"  Sir,  I  am  acquainted  with  the  rectitude  of  your  prin- 
ciples ;  but  all  my  hope  —  my  only  hope  —  is  in  your 
pity.   Under  any  event,  I  may  rely  on  your  discretion  ?  " 

"  Madame,  you  may." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  proceed.  The  death  of  this  poor 
child  was  so  great  a  shock  to  her  mother,  that  her  grief 
is  as  great  now  as  it  was  fourteen  years  since,  and,  hav- 
ing then  feared  for  her  life,  we  are  now  in  dread  for  her 
reason." 

"  Poor  mother ! "  said  M.  Ferrand,  in  a  tone  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"  Oh,  yes,  poor  unhappy  mother,  indeed,  sir !  for  she 
could  only  blush  at  the  birth  of  her  child  at  the  time 
when  she  lost  it;  whilst  now  circumstances  are  such, 
that,  if  the  child  were  still  alive,  my  sister  could  render 
her  legitimate,  be  proud  of  her,  and  never  again  allow 
her  to  quit  her.  Thus  this  incessant  regret,  coming  to 
add  to  her  other  sorrows,  we  are  afraid  every  hour  lest 
she  should  be  bereft  of  her  senses." 

"  It  is  unfortunate  that  nothing  can  be  done  in  the 
matter." 

"  Yes,  sir  —  " 

"  What,  madame  ? " 

"  Suppose  some  one  told  the  poor  mother,  '  Your  child 
was  reported  to  be  dead,  but  she  did  not  die :  the  woman 
who  had  charge  of  her  when  she  was  little  could  vouch 
for  this.' " 

"  Such  a  falsehood,  madame,  would  be  cruel.  Why 
give  so  vain  a  hope  to  the  poor  mother?" 

144 


THE  CLIENTS. 


"  But,  supposing  it  were  not  a  falsehood,  sir  ?  or, 
rather,  if  the  supposition  could  be  realised  ? " 

"  By  a  miracle  ?  If  it  only  required  my  prayers  to  be 
united  with  your  own  to  obtain  this  result,  I  would  give 
them  to  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  —  believe 
me,  madame.  Unfortunately,  the  register  of  decease  is 
strictly  regular." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  I  know  well  enough  that  the  child  is 
dead ;  and  yet,  if  you  will  agree,  that  misfortune  need 
not  be  irreparable." 

"  Is  this  some  riddle,  madame  ?  " 

"  I  will  speak  more  clearly.  If  my  sister  were  to- 
morrow to  recover  her  daughter,  she  would  be  certain 
not  only  to  be  restored  to  health,  but  to  be  wedded  to 
the  father  of  her  child,  who  is  now  as  free  as  herself. 
My  niece  died  at  six  years  old.  Separated  from  her 
parents  from  a  very  tender  age,  they  have  not  the  slight- 
est recollection  of  her.  Suppose  a  young  girl  of  seven- 
teen was  produced  (my  niece  would  be  about  that  age), 
—  a  young  girl  (such  as  there  are  many)  forsaken  by 
her  parents,  —  and  it  was  said  to  my  sister,  <  Here's  your 
daughter,  for  you  have  been  imposed  upon.  Important 
interests  have  required  that  she  should  have  been  said 
to  be  dead.  The  female  who  brought  her  up  and  a 
respectable  notary  will  confirm  these  facts,  and  prove 
to  you  that  it  is  really  she  — ' " 

Jacques  Ferrand,  after  having  allowed  the  countess 
to  speak  on  without  interruption,  rose  abruptly,  and" 
exclaimed,  with  an  indignant  air  : 

"  Madame,  this  is  infamous  ! " 

"Sir!" 

"  To  dare  to  propose  such  a  thing  to  me  —  to  me ! 
A  supposititious  child,  the  destruction  of  a  registry  of 
decease ;  a  criminal  act,  indeed  !  It  is  the  first  time  in 
my  life  that  I  was  ever  subjected  to  so  outrageous  a 
proposal,  —  a  proposal  I  have  not  merited,  and  you 
know  it!" 

145 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


"  But,  sir,  what  wrong  does  this  do  to  any  one  ?  My 
sister  and  the  individual  she  desires  to  marry  are  widow 
and  widower,  and  childless,  both  bitterly  lamenting  the 
child  they  have  lost.  To  deceive  them  is  to  restore 
them  to  happiness,  to  life,  is  to  ensure  a  happy  destiny 
to  some  poor,  forsaken  girl ;  and  it  becomes,  therefore, 
a  noble,  a  generous  action,  and  not  a  crime !  " 

"  Really,  madame,  I  marvel  to  see  how  the  most 
execrable  projects  may  be  coloured,  so  as  to  pass  for 
beautiful  pictures !  " 

"  But,  sir,  reflect  —  " 

"  I  repeat  to  you,  madame,  that  it  is  infamous  !  And 
it  is  shameful  to  see  a  lady  of  your  rank  lend  herself  to 
such  abominable  machinations,  —  to  which,  I  trust,  your 
sister  is  a  stranger." 

"  Sir  —  " 

"  Enough,  madame,  enough !  I  am  not  a  polished  gentle- 
man, I  am  not,  and  I  shall  speak  my  mind  bluntly." 

Sarah  gave  the  notary  a  piercing  look  with  her  jet- 
black  eyes,  and  said,  coldly  : 

"  You  refuse  ?" 

"  I  pray,  madame,  that  you  will  not  again  insult  me." 

"  Beware  !  " 

"  What !    Threats  ? " 

"  Threats !     And  that  you  may  learn  they  are  not 
vain  ones,  learn,  first,  that  I  have  no  sister  —  " 
"  What,  madame  ?  " 
"  I  am  the  mother  of  this  child !  " 
"  You?" 

"I  —  I  made  a  circuitous  route  to  reach  my  end  — 
coined  a  tale  to  excite  your  interest ;  but  you  are  piti- 
less. I  raise  the  mask,  you  are  for  war.  Well,  war  be 
it  then ! " 

"  War  !  Because  I  refuse  to  associate  myself  with  you 
in  a  criminal  machination  !    What  audacity  !  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  sir !   Your  reputation  as  an  honest 
man  is  established,  acknowledged,  undisputed  —  " 
146 


THE  CLIENTS. 


"Because  deserved;  and,  therefore,  you  must  have 
lost  your  reason  to  make  me  such  a  proposal  as  you 
have  done,  and  then  threaten  me  because  I  will  not 
accede  to  it." 

"  I  know,  sir,  better  than  any  one  how  much  reputa- 
tions for  immaculate  virtue  are  to  be  distrusted ;  they 
often  mask  wantonness  in  women  and  roguery  in  men." 

"Madame?" 

"  Ever  since  our  conversation  began,  —  I  do  not  know 
why,  but  I  have  mistrusted  your  claim  to  the  esteem 
and  consideration  which  you  enjoy." 

"  Really,  madame,  your  mistrust  does  honour  to  your 
penetration ! " 

"  Does  it  not  ?  For  this  mistrust  is  based  on  mere 
nothings  —  on  instinct  —  on  inexplicable  presentiments  ; 
but  these  intimations  have  rarely  beguiled  me." 

"  Madame,  let  us  terminate  this  conversation." 

"  First  learn  my  determination.  I  begin  by  telling 
you  that  I  am  convinced  of  the  death  of  my  poor  daugh- 
ter. But,  no  matter,  I  shall  pretend  that  she  is  not 
dead :  the  most  unlikely  things  do  happen.  You  are 
at  this  moment  in  a  position  of  which  very  many  must 
be  envious,  and  would  be  delighted  at  any  weapon  with 
which  to  assail  you.    I  will  supply  one." 

"You?" 

"  I,  by  attacking  you  under  some  absurd  pretext, 
some  irregularity  in  the  declaration  of  death ;  say  —  no 
matter  what  —  I  will  insist  that  my  child  is  not  dead. 
As  I  have  the  greatest  interest  in  making  it  believed 
that  she  is  still  alive,  though  lost,  this  action  will  be 
useful  to  me  in  giving  a  wide  circulation  to  the  affair. 
A  mother  who  claims  her  child  is  always  interesting  ; 
and  I  should  have  with  me  those  who  envy  you,  —  your 
enemies,  and  every  sensitive  and  romantic  mind." 

"  This  is  as  mad  as  it  is  malevolent !  What  motive 
could  I  have  in  making  your  daughter  pass  for  dead,  if 
she  were  not  really  defunct  ? " 

147 


* 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  That  is  true  enough,  and  the  motive  may  be  difficult 
to  find ;  but,  then,  have  we  not  the  attorneys  and 
barristers  at  our  elbows  ?  Now  I  think  of  it  (excellent 
idea  !),  desirous  of  sharing  with  your  client  the  sum 
sunk  in  the  annuity  on  this  unfortunate  child,  you  caused 
her  disappearance." 

The  unabashed  notary  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  If  I  had  been  criminal  enough  for  that,  instead  of 
causing  its  disappearance,  I  should  have  killed  it !  " 

Sarah  started  with  surprise,  remained  silent  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  with  bitterness  : 

"  For  a  pious  man,  this  is  an  idea  of  crime  deeply 
reflective !  Can  I  by  chance,  then,  have  hit  the  mark 
when  I  fired  at  random  ?  I  must  think  of  this,  —  and 
think  I  will.  One  other  word.  You  see  the  sort  of 
woman  I  am :  I  crush  without  remorse  all  obstacles 
that  lie  in  my  onward  path.  Reflect  well,  then,  for 
to-morrow  this  must  be  decided  on.  You  may  do  what 
I  ask  you  with  impunity.  In  his  joy,  the  father  of  my 
daughter  will  not  think  of  doubting  the  possibility  of  his 
child's  restoration,  if  our  falsehoods,  which  will  make  him 
happy,  are  adroitly  combined.  Besides,  he  has  no  other 
proofs  of  the  death  of  our  daughter  than  those  I  wrote 
to  him  of  fourteen  years  ago,  and  I  could  easily  per- 
suade him  that  I  had  deceived  him  on  this  subject ;  for 
then  I  had  real  causes  of  complaint  against  him.  I  will 
tell  him  that  in  my  grief  I  was  desirous  of  breaking 
every  existing  tie  that  bound  us  to  each  other.  You 
cannot,  therefore,  be  compromised  in  any  way.  Affirm 
only,  irreproachable  man.  Affirm  that  all  was  in  former 
days  concerted  between  us,  —  you  and  me  and  Madame 
S^raphin,  —  and  you  will  be  credited.  As  to  the  fifteen 
thousand  francs  sunk  in  an  annuity  for  my  child,  that  is 
my  affair  solely.  They  will  remain  acquired  by  your 
client,  who  must  be  kept  profoundly  ignorant  of  this  ; 
and,  moreover,  you  shall  yourself  name  your  own 
recompense." 

148 


THE  CLIENTS. 


Jacques  Ferrand  maintained  all  his  sang-froid  in  spite 
of  the  singularity  of  his  situation,  remarkable  and  dan- 
gerous as  it  was.  The  countess,  really  believing  in  the 
death  of  her  daughter,  had  proposed  to  the  notary  to 
pass  off  the  dead  child  as  riving,  whom,  living,  he  had 
declared  to  have  died  fourteen  years  before.  He  was  too 
clever,  and  too  well  acquainted  with  the  perils  of  his 
position,  not  to  understand  the  effect  of  all  Sarah's 
threats.  His  reputation,  although  admirably  and  labo- 
riously built  up,  was  based  on  a  substructure  of  sand. 
The  public  detaches  itself  as  easily  as  it  becomes  infatu- 
ated, liking  to  have  the  right  to  trample  under  foot  him 
whom  but  just  now  it  elevated  to  the  skies.  How  could 
the  consequences  of  the  first  assault  on  the  reputation 
of  Jacques  Ferrand  be  foreseen?  However  absurd  the 
attack  might  be,  its  very  boldness  might  give  rise  to  sus- 
picions. Wishing  to  gain  time  to  determine  on  the  mode 
by  which  he  would  seek  to  parry  the  dangerous  blow,  the 
notary  said,  frigidly,  to  Sarah  : 

"  You  have  given  me,  madame,  until  to-morrow  at  noon ; 
I  give  you  until  the  next  day  to  renounce  a  plot  whose 
serious  nature  you  do  hot  seem  to  have  contemplated. 
If,  between  this  and  then,  I  do  not  receive  from  you  a 
letter  informing  me  that  you  have  abandoned  this  crim- 
inal and  crazy  enterprise,  you  will  learn  to  your  cost 
that  Justice  knows  how  to  protect  honest  people  who 
refuse  guilty  associations,  and  what  may  happen  to  the 
concoctors  of  hateful  machinations." 

"You  mean  to  say,  sir,  that  you  ask  from  me  one 
more  day  to  reflect  on  my  proposals  ?  That  is  a  good 
sign,  and  I  grant  the  delay.  The  day  after  to-morrow, 
at  this  hour,  I  will  come  here  again,  and  it  shall  be 
between  us  peace  or  war,  —  I  repeat  it,  —  but  a  '  war  to 
the  knife,'  without  mercy  or  pity." 

And  Sarah  left  the  room. 

"  All  goes  well,"  she  said.    "  This  miserable  girl,  in 
149 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


whom  Rodolph  capriciously  takes  so  much  interest,  and 
has  sent  to  the  farm  at  Bouqueval,  in  order,  no  doubt, 
to  make  her  his  mistress  hereafter,  is  no  longer  to  be 
feared,  —  thanks  to  the  one-eyed  woman  who  has  freed 
me  from  her.  Rodolph's  adroitness  has  saved  Madame 
d'Harville  from  the  snare  into  which  I  meant  she  should 
fall ;  but  it  is  impossible  that  she  can  escape  from  the 
fresh  plot  I  have  laid  for  her,  and  thus  she  must  be  for 
ever  lost  to  Rodolph.  Thus,  saddened,  discouraged,  iso- 
lated from  all  affection,  will  he  not  be  in  a  frame  of 
mind  such  as  will  best  suit  my  purpose  of  making  him 
the  dupe  of  a  falsehood  to  which,  by  the  notary's  aid,  I 
can  give  every  impress  of  truth  ?  And  the  notary  will 
aid  me,  for  I  have  frightened  him.  I  shall  easily  find  a 
young  orphan  girl,  interesting  and  poor,  who,  taught  her 
lesson  by  me,  will  fill  the  character  of  our  child  so  bitterly 
mourned  by  Rodolph.  I  know  the  expansiveness,  the 
generosity  of  his  heart,  —  yes,  to  give  a  name,  a  rank  to 
her  whom  he  will  believe  to  be  his  daughter,  till  now 
forsaken  and  abandoned,  he  will  renew  those  bonds 
between  us  which  I  believed  indissoluble.  The  predic- 
tions of  my  nurse  will  be  at  length  realised,  and  I  shall 
thus  and  then  attain  the  constant  aim  of  my  life,  —  a 
crown ! " 

Sarah  had  scarcely  left  the  notary  before  M.  Charles 
Robert  entered,  after  alighting  from  a  very  dashing  cab- 
riolet. He  went  like  a  person  on  most  intimate  terms 
to  the  private  room  of  Jacques  Ferrand. 

The  commandant,  as  Madame  Pipelet  called  him, 
entered  without  ceremony  into  the  notary's  cabinet, 
whom  he  found  in  a  surly,  bilious  mood,  and  who  thus 
accosted  him : 

"  I  reserve  the  afternoon  for  my  clients ;  when  you 
wish  to  speak  to  me  come  in  the  morning,  will  you  ? " 

"  My  dear  lawyer  "  (this  was  a  standing  pleasantry  of 
M.  Robert),  "I  have  a  very  important  matter  to  talk 
150 


THE  CLIENTS. 


about  in  the  first  place,  and,  in  the  next,  I  was  anxious 
to  assure  you  in  person  against  any  alarms  you  might 
have  —  " 

"What  alarms?" 

"  What !    Haven't  you  heard  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  Of  my  duel  —  " 

"Your  duel?" 

"  With  the  Duke  de  Lucenay.    Is  it  possible  you  have 
not  heard  of  it  ? " 
"  Quite  possible." 
"Pooh!  pooh!" 

«  But  what  did  you  fight  about  ?  " 

"  A  very  serious  matter,  which  called  for  bloodshed. 
Only  imagine  that,  at  a  very  large  party,  M.  de  Lucenay 
actually  said  that  I  had  a  phlegmy  cough ! " 

"That  you  had  —  " 

"  A  phlegmy  cough,  my  dear  lawyer ;  a  complaint  which 
is  really  most  ridiculously  absurd  !  " 

"  And  did  you  fight  about  that  ? " 

"  What  the  devil  would  you  have  a  man  fight  about  ? 
Can  you  imagine  that  a  man  could  stand  calmly  and 
hear  himself  charged  with  having  a  phlegmy  cough  ? 
And  before  a  lovely  woman,  too !  Before  a  little  mar- 
chioness, who  —  who  —  In  a  word,  I  could  not  stand 
it!" 

«  Really ! " 

"  The  military  men,  you  see,  are  always  sensitive. 
My  seconds  went,  the  day  before  yesterday,  to  try  and 
obtain  some  explanation  from  those  of  the  duke.  I 
put  the  matter  perfectly  straight,  —  a  duel  or  an  ample 
apology." 

"  An  ample  apology  for  what  ?  " 

"For  the  phlegmy  cough,  pardieu! — the  phlegmy 
cough  that  he  fastened  on  me." 
The  notary  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  The  duke's  seconds  said, 1  We  bear  testimony  to  the 
151 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


honourable  character  of  M.  Charles  Robert,  but  M.  de 
Lucenay  cannot,  ought  not,  and  will  not  retract.'  '  Then, 
gentlemen,'  replied  my  seconds,  '  M.  de  Lucenay  is  obsti- 
nately determined  to  assert  that  M.  Charles  Robert  has 
a  phlegmy  cough  ? '  '  Yes,  gentlemen,  but  he  does  not 
therefore  mean  in  the  slightest  way  to  impugn  the  high 
respectability  of  M.  Charles  Robert.'  '  Then  let  him 
retract  — '  'No,  gentlemen,  M.  de  Lucenay  acknowl- 
edges M.  Robert  as  a  most  decidedly  worthy  gentleman, 
but  still  asserts  that  he  has  a  phlegmy  cough.'  You  see 
there  was  no  means  of  arranging  so  serious  an  affair." 

"  To  be  sure  not.  You  were  insulted  in  the  point 
which  a  man  holds  dearest." 

"  Wasn't  I  ?  Well,  time  and  place  were  agreed  on ; 
and  yesterday  morning  we  met  at  Vincennes,  and  every- 
thing passed  off  in  the  most  honourable  manner  possible. 
I  touched  M.  de  Lucenay  slightly  in  the  arm,  and  the 
seconds  declared  that  honour  was  satisfied.  Then  the 
duke,  with  a  loud  voice,  said,  <  I  never  retract  before  a 
meeting,  but,  afterwards,  it  is  a  very  different  thing.  It 
is,  therefore,  my  duty,  and  my  honour  impels  me  to 
declare,  that  I  falsely  accused  M.  Charles  Robert  of  hav- 
ing a  phlegmy  cough.  Gentlemen,  I  not  only  declare  that 
my  honourable  opponent  had  not  a  phlegmy  cough,  but  I 
trust  he  never  will  have  one.'  Then  the  duke  extended 
his  hand  in  the  most  cordial  manner,  saying, '  Are  you 
now  satisfied  ? '  4  We  are  friends  through  life  and  death,' 
I  replied  ;  and  it  was  really  due  to  him  to  say  so.  The 
duke  has  behaved  to  perfection.  Either  he  might  have 
said  nothing,  or  contented  himself  with  declaring  that  I 
had  not  the  phlegmy  cough.  But  to  express  his  wish 
that  I  might  never  have  it,  was  a  most  delicate  attention 
on  his  part." 

"  This  is  what  I  call  courage  well  employed !  But 
what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  My  dear  cashkeeper  "  (this  was  another  of  M.  Robert's 
habitual  pleasantries),  "  it  is  a  matter  of  great  importance 
152 


THE  CLIENTS. 


to  me.  You  know  that,  according  to  our  agreement,  I 
have  advanced  to  you  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs  (14,000Z.)  to  complete  a  particular  payment  you 
had  ;  and  it  was  stipulated  that  I  was  to  give  you  three 
months'  notice  of  my  wish  to  withdraw  that  money,  the 
interest  of  which  you  pay  me  regularly." 
«  Go  on." 

"  Well,"  said  M.  Robert,  hesitatingly,  "I  —  no  - — 
that  is  —  " 
"  What  ?  " 

"Why,  it  is  only  a  whim  of  becoming  a  landed 
proprietor." 

"  Come  to  the  point,  pray !    You  annoy  me." 

"  In  a  word,  then,  I  am  anxious  to  become  a  landed 
proprietor.  And,  if  not  inconvenient  to  you,  I  should 
like  —  that  is  I  should  wish  —  to  have  my  funds  now 
in  your  hands ;  and  I  came  to  say  so." 

«  Ah,  ah ! " 

"  That  does  not  offend  you,  I  hope  ?  " 
«  Why  should  I  be  offended  ? " 
"  Because  you  might  think  —  " 
"  I  might  think  —  ? " 

"  That  I  am  the  echo  of  certain  reports  —  " 

"  What  reports  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing.    Mere  folly." 

"  But,  tell  me  —  " 

"  Oh,  there  can  be  no  certainty  in  the  gossip  about 
you!" 

"  What  gossip  ? " 

"  Oh,  it  is  false  from  beginning  to  end.  But  there 
are  chatterers  who  say  that  you  are  mixed  up  in  some 
unpleasant  transactions.  Idle  gossip,  I  am  quite  certain. 
It  is  just  the  same  as  the  report  that  you  and  I  specu- 
lated on  the  Exchange  together.  These  reports  soon 
died  away.    For  I  will  always  say  that  —  " 

"  So  you  suppose  that  your  money  is  not  safe  with 
me?" 

153 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Oh,  no  —  no  !  But,  at  this  moment,  I  should  like 
to  have  it  in  my  own  hands." 

"  Wait  a  moment."  M.  Ferrand  shut  the  drawer  of 
his  bureau,  and  rose. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  my  dear  cashkeeper  ?" 

"  To  fetch  what  will  convince  you  of  the  truth  of  the 
reports  as  to  the  embarrassment  of  my  affairs,"  said 
the  notary,  ironically ;  and,  opening  the  door  of  a  small 
private  staircase,  which  enabled  him  to  go  into  the 
pavilion  at  the  back  without  passing  through  the  office, 
he  disappeared.  He  had  scarce  left  the  room,  when  the 
head  clerk  rapped  again. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Charles  Robert. 

"  Is  not  M.  Ferrand  here  ? " 

"  No,  my  worthy  pounce  and  parchment "  (another 
joke  of  M.  Robert). 

"  There  is  a  lady  with  a  veil  on,  who  wishes  to  see  my 
employer  this  moment  on  a  very  urgent  affair." 

"  Worthy  quill-driver,  the  excellent  employer  will  be 
here  in  a  moment,  and  I  will  inform  him.  Is  the  lady 
handsome  ? " 

"  One  must  be  very  keen-sighted  to  discover ;  for  she 
has  on  a  black  veil,  so  thick  that  it  is  impossible  to  see 
her  face." 

"  Really,  really,  I  will  make  her  show  her  face  as  I  go 
out.    I'll  tell  the  governor  as  soon  as  he  returns." 
The  clerk  left  the  room. 

"  Where  the  devil  has  the  attorney  at  law  vanished  ? " 
said  M.  Charles  Robert.  "  To  examine  the  state  of  his 
finances,  no  doubt.  If  these  reports  are  groundless,  so 
much  the  better.  And,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  they 
can  but  be  false  reports.  Men  of  Jacques  Ferrand's 
honesty  always  have  so  many  people  jealous  of  them ! 
Still,  at  the  same  time,  I  should  just  as  well  like  to  have 
my  own  cash.  I  will  certainly  buy  the  chateau  in  ques- 
tion. There  are  towers  and  Gothic  turrets  quite  d  la 
Louis  Quatorze,  the  real  renaissance,  and,  in  a  word,  all 
154 


THE  CLIENTS. 


that  is  most  rococo.  It  would  give  me  a  kind  of  landed 
proprietor's  sort  of  air  which  would  be  capital.  It 
would  not  be  like  my  amour  with  that  flirt  of  a  Madame 
d'Harville.  Has  she  really  cut  me  ?  Can  she  really 
have  given  me  the  '  go-by  ? '  No,  no  !  I  am  not  trifled 
with  as  that  stupid  porteress  in  the  Rue  du  Temple,  with 
her  bob-wig,  says.  Yet  this  agreeable  little  flirtation 
has  cost  me  at  least  one  thousand  crowns.  True,  the 
furniture  is  left,  and  I  have  quite  enough  in  my  power 
to  compromise  the  marchioness.  But  here  comes  the 
lawyer !  " 

M.  Ferrand  returned,  holding  in  his  hands  some 
papers,  which  he  handed  to  M.  Charles  Robert. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  "  are  three  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand francs  in  bank-bills.  In  a  few  days  we  will 
balance  the  account  of  interest.    Give  me  a  receipt." 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  M.  Robert,  astonished ;  "  do  not 
go  to  think  that  —  " 

"  I  don't  think  anything." 

«But  —  " 

"  The  receipt !  " 

"  Dear  cashkeeper  !  "  , 

"Write  it;  and  tell  the  persons  who  talk  to  you  of 
my  embarrassments,  how  I  reply  to  such  suspicions." 

"  The  fact  is  that,  as  soon  as  they  hear  this,  your 
credit  will  be  more  solid  than  ever.  But,  really,  take 
the  money  back  again ;  I  do  not  want  it  at  this  moment. 
I  told  you  it  was  three  months  hence." 

"  Monsieur  Charles  Robert,  no  man  suspects  me 
twice." 

"  You  are  angry  ?  " 

"  The  receipt,  —  the  receipt ! " 
Man  of  iron,  that  you  are  ! "  said  M.  Charles  Robert. 
"  There  !  "  he  added,  writing  the  receipt.  "  There  is  a 
lady,  closely  veiled,  who  desires  to  speak  to  you  directly 
on  a  very  urgent  affair.  Won't  I  have  a  good  look  at 
her  as  I  go  out!  There's  your  receipt;  is  it  all  right?" 
155 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Quite.    Now  I'll  thank  you  to  go  out  this  way." 
„  "  And  so  not  see  the  lady  ? " 
"  Precisely  so." 

And  the  notary  rang  ;  and  when  the  chief  clerk  made 
his  appearance,  he  said  : 

"  Ask  the  lady  to  walk  in.    Good  day,  M.  Robert." 

"  Well,  I  see  I  must  give  up  the  chance  of  seeing  her. 
Don't  bear  malice,  lawyer.    Believe  me,  if  —  " 

"  There  —  there  ;  that'll  do.  Good-bye."  And  the 
notary  shut  the  door  on  M.  Charles  Robert. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments,  the  chief  clerk 
introduced  the  Duchess  de  Lucenay,  very  simply  attired, 
wearing  a  large  shawl,  and  her  features  entirely  con- 
cealed by  a  thick  veil  of  black  lace,  depending  from  her 
watered  silk  bonnet  of  the  same  colour. 

Madame  de  Lucenay,  a  good  deal  agitated,  walked 
slowly  towards  the  notary's  bureau,  who  advanced  a 
few  paces  to  meet  her. 

"  Who  are  you,  madame  ;  and  what  may  be  your  busi- 
ness with  me?"  said  Jacques  Ferrand,  abruptly  ;  for 
Sarah's  menaces  and  M.  Charles  Robert's  suspicions  had 
a  good  deal  ruffled  him.  Moreover,  the  duchess  was 
clad  so  simply,  that  the  notary  did  not  see  any  reason 
why  he  should  not  be  rude.  As  she  did  not  immediately 
reply,  he  continued,  abruptly  : 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  inform  me,  madame  ? " 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  in  a  faltering  voice,  and  endeavouring 
to  conceal  her  face  in  the  folds  of  her  veil,  "  Sir,  may  I 
entrust  you  with  a  secret  of  extreme  importance  ? " 

"  You  may  trust  me  with  anything,  madame.  But  it 
is  requisite  that  I  should  know  and  see  to  whom  I  speak." 

"  That,  sir,  perhaps,  is  not  necessary.  I  know  that 
you  are  probity  and  honour  itself  —  " 

"  To  the  point,  madame,  —  to  the  point.  I  have  some 
one  waiting  for  me.    Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  of  no  consequence,  sir.  One  —  of  —  my 
friends,  —  a  relative,  —  has  just  left  you." 

156 


THE  CLIENTS. 


"  His  name  ? " 

"  M.  Florestan  de  Saint-Remy." 
N        "  Ah  ! "  said  the  notary ;  and  he  cast  a  scrutinising 
and  steadfast  glance  on  the  duchess.    Then  he  added, 
"Well,  madame  ?" 

"  M.  de  Saint-Remy  has  told  me  —  all,  —  sir !  " 

"  What  has  he  told  you,  madame  ?  " 

"All!" 

"What  all?" 

"  Sir ;  you  know  —  " 

"  I  know  many  things  about  M.  de  Saint-Remy." 
"  Alas,  sir,  this  is  a  terrible  thing  !  " 
"  I  know  many  terrible  things  about  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy." 

"  Oh,  sir,  he  was  right  when  he  told  me  that  you 
were  pitiless." 

"  For  swindlers  and  forgers  like  him,  —  yes,  I  am 
pitiless.  So  this  Saint-Remy  is  a  relative  of  yours? 
Instead  of  owning  it,  you  ought  to  blush  at  it.  Do  you 
mean  to  try  and  soften  me  with  your  tears  ?  It  is  use- 
less,—  not  to  add  that  you  have  undertaken  a  very 
disgraceful  task  for  a  respectable  female." 

At  this  coarse  insolence  the  pride  and  patrician  blood 
of  the  duchess  revolted.  She  drew  herself  up,  threw 
back  her  veil;  and  then,  with  a  lofty  air,  imperious 
glance,  and  firm  voice,  said: 

"  I  am  the  Duchess  de  Lucenay,  sir  !  " 

The  lady  then  assumed  the  lofty  look  of  her  station ; 
and  her  appearance  was  so  imposing  that  the  notary, 
controlled,  fascinated,  receded  a  pace,  quite  overcome, 
took  off  mechanically  the  black  silk  cap  that  covered  his 
cranium,  and  made  a  low  bow. 

In  truth,  nothing  could  be  more  charming  and  aristo- 
cratic than  the  face  and  figure  of  Madame  de  Lucenay, 
although  she  was  turned  thirty,  and  her  features  were 
pale  and  somewhat  agitated.  But  then  she  had  full, 
brown  eyes,  sparkling  and  bold ;  splendid  black  hair ;  a 
157 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

nose  thin  and  arched ;  a  lip  red  and  disdainful ;  a  daz- 
zling complexion ;  teeth  of  ivory ;  and  a  form  tall  and 
slender,  graceful,  and  full  of  distinction,  —  the  carriage 
of  a  goddess  in  the  clouds,  as  the  immortal  Saint-Simon 
says.  With  her  hair  powdered,  and  a  costume  of  the 
eighteenth  centui  y,  Madame  de  Lucenay  would  have  rep- 
resented, physically  and  morally,  one  of  those  gay  and 
careless  duchesses  of  the  Regency  who  carried  on  their 
flirtations  (or  worse)  with  so  much  audacity,  giddiness, 
and  real  kindness  of  heart,  who  confessed  their  pecca- 
dilloes from  time  to  time  with  so  much  candour  and 
naivete*,  that  the  most  punctilious  said,  with  a  smile, 
"  She  is,  doubtless,  light  and  culpable  ;  but  she  is  so 
kind  —  so  delightful ;  loves  with  so  much  intensity, 
passion,  and  fidelity,  —  as  long  as  she  does  love,  — that 
we  cannot  really  be  angry  with  her.  After  all,  she  only 
injures  herself,  and  makes  so  many  others  happy  !  "  Ex- 
cept the  powder  and  the  large  skirts  to  her  dress,  such 
also  was  Madame  de  Lucenay,  when  not  depressed  by 
sombre  thoughts.  She  entered  the  office  of  M.  Jacques 
Ferrand  like  a  plain  tradesman's  wife  ;  in  the  instant  she 
came  forth  as  a  great,  proud,  and  irritated  lady.  Jacques 
Ferrand  had  never  in  his  life  seen  a  woman  of  such  strik- 
ing beauty,  —  so  haughty  and  bold,  and  so  noble  in  her 
demeanour.  The  look  of  the  duchess,  her  glorious  eyes, 
encircled  with  an  imperceptible  bow  of  azure,  her  rosy 
nostrils,  much  dilated,  betokened  her  ardent  nature. 

Although  old,  ugly,  ignoble,  and  sordid,  Jacques  Fer- 
rand was  as  capable  as  any  one  of  appreciating  the  style 
of  beauty  of  Madame  de  Lucenay.  The  hatred  and  rage 
which  the  notary  felt  against  M.  de  Saint-Remy  was 
increased  by  the  admiration  which  his  proud  and  lovely 
mistress  inspired  in  him.  Devoured  by  all  his  repressed 
passions,  he  said  to  himself,  in  an  agony  of  rage,  that 
this  gentleman  forger,  whom  he  had  compelled  almost 
to  fall  at  his  feet  when  he  threatened  him  with  the 
assizes,  could  inspire  such  love  in  such  a  woman  that 
158 


THE  CLIENTS. 


she  actually  risked  the  present  step  in  his  behalf,  which 
might  prove  fatal  to  her  reputation.  As  he  thus  thought, 
the  notary  felt  his  boldness,  which  had  been  for  a  moment 
*  paralysed,  restored  to  him.  Hatred,  envy,  a  kind  of  sav- 
age and  burning  ret  entment,  lighted  up  his  eyes,  his  fore- 
head, and  his  cheeks.  Seeing  Madame  de  Lucenay  on 
the  point  of  commencing  so  delicate  a  conversation,  he 
expected  from  her  caution  and  management.  What  was 
his  astonishment!  She  spoke  with  as  much  assurance 
and  haughtiness  as  if  she  were  discoursing  about  the 
simplest  thing  in  the  world ;  and  as  if,  before  a  man  of 
his  sort,  she  had  no  care  for  reserve  or  those  conceal- 
ments which  she  would  assuredly  have  maintained  with 
her  equals.  In  fact,  the  coarse  brutality  of  the  notary 
wounded  her  to  the  quick,  and  had  led  Madame  de 
Lucenay  to  quit  the  humble  and  supplicating  part  she 
was  acting  with  much  difficulty  to  herself.  Returned 
to  herself,  she  thought  it  beneath  her  to  descend  to  the 
least  concealment  with  a  mere  scribbler  of  acts  and 
deeds.  High-spirited,  charitable,  generous,  overflowing 
with  kindness,  warm-heartedness,  and  energy,  in  spite 
of  her  faults,  —  but  the  daughter  of  a  mother  of  no 
principle,  and  who  had  even  disgraced  the  noble  and 
respectable,  though  fallen  position  of  an  emigree, — 
Madame  de  Lucenay,  in  her  inborn  contempt  for  certain 
classes,  would  have  said  with  the  Roman  empress  who 
took  her  bath  in  the  presence  of  a  male  slave,  "  He 
is  not  a  man  !  " 

"  Monsieur  Notary,"  said  the  duchess,  with  a  deter- 
mined air,  to  Jacques  Ferrand,  "  M.  de  Saint-Remy  is 
one  of  my  friends,  and  has  confided  to  me  the  embarrass- 
ment under  which  he  is  at  this  moment  suffering,  from 
a  twofold  treachery  of  which  he  is  the  victim.  All  is 
arranged  as  to  the  money.  How  much  is  required  to 
terminate  these  miserable  annoyances  ?  " 

Jacques  Ferrand  was  actually  aghast  at  this  cavalier 
and  deliberate  manner  of  entering  on  this  affair. 

159 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  One  hundred  thousand  francs  are  required,"  he 
repeated,  after  having  in  some  degree  surmounted  his 
surprise. 

"  You  shall  have  your  one  hundred  thousand  francs  ; 
so  send,  at  once,  these  annoying  papers  to  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy." 

"  Where  are  the  one  hundred  thousand  francs,  Madame 
la  Duchesse  ? " 

"  Have  I  not  said  you  should  have  them,  sir  ? " 

"  I  must  have  them  to-morrow,  and  before  noon, 
madame;  or  else  proceedings  will  be  instantly  com- 
menced for  the  forgery." 

"  Well,  do  you  pay  this  sum,  which  I  will  repay  to  you." 

"  But  madame,  it  is  impossible." 

"  But,  sir,  you  will  not  tell  me,  I  imagine,  that  a 
notary,  like  you,  cannot  find  one  hundred  thousand 
francs  by  to-morrow  morning  ? " 

"  On  what  securities,  madame  ? " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    Explain !  " 

"  Who  will  be  answerable  to  me  for  this  sum  ?  " 

« I  will." 

"  Still,  madame  —  " 

"  Need  I  say  that  I  have  an  estate  four  leagues  from 
Paris,  which  brings  me  in  eighty  thousand  francs 
(3,200?.)  a  year?  That  will  suffice,  I  should  think, 
for  what  you  call  your  securities  ? " 

"  Yes,  madame,  when  the  mortgage  is  properly 
secured." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Some  formality  of  law,  no 
doubt?    Do  it,  sir,  do  it." 

"  Such  a  deed  cannot  be  drawn  up  in  less  than  a 
fortnight,  and  we  must  have  your  husband's  assent, 
madame." 

"  But  the  estate  is  mine,  and  mine  only,"  said  the 
duchess,  impatiently. 

"  No  matter,  madame,  you  have  a  husband ;  and 
mortgage  deeds  are  very  long  and  very  minute." 
160 


THE  CLIENTS. 


"  But,  once  again,  sir,  you  will  not  ask  me  to  believe 
that  it  is  so  difficult  to  find  one  hundred  thousand  francs 
,  in  two  hours  ?  " 

"  Then,  madame,  apply  to  the  notary  you  usually 
employ,  or  your  steward ;  as  for  me,  it  is  impossible." 

"  I  have  my  reasons  for  keeping  this  secret,"  said 
Madame  de  Lucenay,  haughtily.  "You  know  the 
rogues  who  seek  to  take  advantage  of  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  I  address  myself  to 
you." 

"  Your  confidence  does  me  much  honour,  madame ; 
but  I  cannot  do  what  you  ask  of  me." 
"  You  have  not  this  sum  ?  " 

"  I  have  much  more  than  that  sum,  in  bank-notes  or 
bright  and  good  gold,  here  in  my  chest." 

"  Then  why  waste  time  about  it  ?  You  require  my 
signature,  I  suppose  ?  Well,  let  me  give  it  to  you,  and  let 
us  end  the  matter." 

"  Even  admitting,  madame,  that  you  were  Madame  de 
Lucenay  —  " 

"  Come  to  the  HStel  de  Lucenay  in  one  hour,  sir,  and 
I  will  sign  whatever  may  be  requisite." 
"  And  will  the  duke  sign,  also  ?  " 
"  I  do  not  understand,  sir." 

"Year  signature,  alone,  would  be  worthless  to  me, 
madame." 

Jacques  Ferrand  delighted,  with  cruel  joy,  in  the 
manifest  impatience  of  the  duchess,  who,  under  the 
appearance  of  coolness  and  hauteur,  repressed  really 
painful  agony. 

For  an  instant  she  was  at  her  wits'  end.  On  the  pre- 
vious evening,  her  jeweller  had  advanced  her  a  consider- 
able sum  on  her  jewels,  some  of  which  had  been  confided 
to  Morel,  the  lapidary.  This  sum  had  been  employed 
in  paying  the  bills  of  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  and  thus  dis- 
arming the  other  creditors ;  M.  Dubreuil,  the  farmer 
of  Arnouville,  was  more  than  a  year's  rent  in  advance 
161 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


on  the  farm  ;  and,  then,  the  time  was  so  pressing.  Still 
more  unfortunately  for  Madame  de  Lucenay,  two  of  her 
friends,  to  whom  she  could  have  had  recourse  in  this 
moment  of  distress,  were  then  absent  from  Paris.  In 
her  eyes,  the  viscount  was  innocent  of  the  forgery.  He 
had  said,  and  she  had  believed  him,  that  he  was  the 
victim  of  two  rogues ;  but  yet  his  position  was  not  the 
less  terrible.  He  accused  !  He  led  to  prison !  And,  even 
if  he  took  flight,  his  name  would  be  no  less  dishonoured 
by  the  suspicion  that  would  light  on  him.  At  these  dis- 
tressing thoughts,  Madame  de  Lucenay  trembled  with 
affright.  She  blindly  loved  this  man,  at  the  same 
time  so  degraded,  and  gifted  with  such  strong  seductive 
powers ;  and  her  passion  for  him  was  one  of  those  affec- 
tions -which  women,  of  her  character  and  her  tempera- 
ment, ordinarily  experience  when  they  attain  an  age  of 
maturity. 

Jacques  Ferrand  carefully  watched  every  variation 
in  the  physiognomy  of  Madame  de  Lucenay,  who  seemed 
to  him  more  lovely  and  attractive  at  every  moment,  and 
awakened  still  more  his  ardent  feeling.  Yet  he  felt 
a  fierce  pleasure  in  tormenting,  by  his  refusals,  this 
female,  who  could  only  entertain  disgust  and  contempt 
for  him.  The  lady  had  spurned  the  idea  of  saying  a 
word  to  the  notary  that  might  seem  like  a  supplication ; 
yet,  when  she  found  the  uselessness  of  other  attempts, 
which  she  had  addressed  to  him  who  alone  could  save 
M.  de  Saint-Remy,  she  said,  at  length,  trying  to  repress 
all  evidence  of  emotion  : 

"  Since  you  have  the  sum  of  money  which  I  ask  of 
you,  sir,  and  my  guarantee  is  sufficient,  why  do  you 
refuse  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  Because  men  have  their  caprices,  as  well  as  ladies, 
madame." 

"  Well,  what  is  this  caprice  which  thus  impels  you  to 
act  against  your  own  interest  ?    For  I  repeat,  sir,  that 
whatever  may  be  your  conditions,  I  accept  them." 
162 


THE  CLIENTS. 


"  You  will  accept  all  my  conditions,  madame  ?  "  said 
the  notary,  with  a  singular  expression. 
,  "  All,  —  two,  three,  four  thousand  francs,  more,  if  you 
please.  For  you  must  know,  sir,"  added  the  duchess, 
in  a  tone  almost  confidential, "  I  have  no  resource  but  in 
you,  sir,  and  in  you  only.  It  will  be  impossible  for  me 
at  this  moment  to  find  elsewhere  what  I  require  for 
to-morrow,  and  I  must  have  it,  as  you  know,  —  I  must 
absolutely  have  it.  Thus  I  repeat  to  you  that,  whatever 
terms  you  require  for  this  service,  I  accept  them ; 
nothing  will  be  a  sacrifice  to  me,  —  nothing." 

The  breath  of  the  notary  became  thick,  and,  in  his 
ignoble  blindness,  he  interpreted  the  last  words  of 
Madame  de  Lucenay  in  an  unworthy  manner.  He 
saw,  through  his  darkened  understanding,  a  woman 
as  bold  as  some  of  the  females  of  the  old  court,  —  a 
woman  driven  to  her  wits'  end  for  fear  of  the  dishonour 
of  him  whom  she  loved,  and  capable,  perhaps,  of 
any  sacrifice  to  save  him.  It  was  even  more  stupid 
than  infamous  to  think  so,  but,  as  we  have  said  al- 
ready, Jacques  Ferrand  sometimes,  though  rarely,  forgot 
himself. 

He  quitted  his  chair  abruptly,  and  approached  Madame 
de  Lucenay,  who,  surprised,  rose  when  he  did,  and  looked 
at  him  with  much  astonishment. 

"  Nothing  will  be  a  sacrifice  to  you,  say  you  ?  To 
you,  who  are  so  lovely  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  voice 
trembling  and  broken  with  agitation,  as  he  went  towards 
the  duchess.  "  Well,  then,  I  will  lend  you  this  sum,  on 
one  condition,  —  one  condition  only,  —  and  I  swear  to 
you  —  " 

He  could  not  finish  his  declaration. 

By  one  of  those  singular  contradictions  of  human 
nature,  at  the  sight  of  the  singularly  ugly  features  of  M. 
Ferrand,  at  the  strange  and  whimsical  thoughts  which 
arose  in  Madame  de  Lucenay's  mind,  at  his  ridiculous 
pretensions,  which  she  guessed  in  spite  of  her  disquietude 
163 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


and  anxiety,  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  so  hearty, 
so  loud,  and  so  excessive,  that  the  disconcerted  notary 
reeled  back.  Then,  without  allowing  him  a  moment 
to  utter  another  word,  the  duchess  gave  way  still 
more  to  her  increasing  mirth,  lowered  her  veil,  and, 
between  two  bursts  of  irrepressible  laughter,  she 
said  to  the  notary,  overwhelmed  by  hatred,  rage,  and 
fury : 

"  Really,  I  should  much  rather  prefer  asking  this 
advance  from  M.  de  Lucenay." 

She  then  left  the  room,  laughing  so  heartily  that,  even 
when  the  door  of  his  room  was  closed,  the  notary  heard 
her  still. 

Jacques  Ferrand  no  sooner  recovered  his  reason  than 
he  cursed  his  imprudence ;  but  he  became  reassured  on 
reflecting  that  the  duchess  could  not  allude  to  this 
adventure  without  compromising  herself.  Still,  the  day 
had  been  unpropitious,  and  he  was  plunged  in  thought 
when  the  door  of  his  study  opened,  and  Madame  Sera- 
phin  entered  in  great  agitation- 

"  Ah,  Ferrand,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  were  right  when 
you  declared  that,  one  day  or  other,  we  should  be  ruined 
for  having  allowed  her  to  live  !  " 

«  Who?" 

«  That  cursed  little  girl !  " 
"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"A  one-eyed  woman,  whom  I  did  not  know,  and  to 
whom  Tournemine  gave  the  little  chit  to  get  rid  of  her, 
fourteen  years  ago,  when  we  wished  to  make  her  pass 
for  dead —    Ah,  who  would  have  thought  it!" 

"  Speak !   Speak  !    Why  don't  you  speak  ? " 

"  This  one-eyed  woman  has  been  here,  was  down-stairs 
just  now,  and  told  me  that  she  knew  it  was  I  who  had 
delivered  up  the  little  brat." 

"  Malediction  !  Who  could  have  told  her  ?  Tournemine 
is  at  the  galleys." 

"  I  denied  it,  and  treated  the  one-eyed  woman  as 
164 


THE  CLIENTS. 


a  liar.  But  bah !  she  declares  she  knows  where  the 
girl  is  now,  and  that  she  has  grown  up,  that  she  has 
her,  and  that  it  only  depends  on  her  to  discover  every- 
thing." 

"  Is  hell,  then,  unchained  against  me  to-day  ? "  ex- 
claimed the  notary,  in  a  fit  of  rage.  "  What  shall  I  say 
to  this  woman  ?  What  shall  I  offer  her  to  hold  her 
tongue  ?    Does  she  seem  well  off  ?  " 

"  As  I  treated  her  like  a  beggar,  she  shook  her  hand- 
basket,  and  there  was  money  inside  of  it."' 

"  And  she  knows  where  this  young  girl  is  now  ?  " 
.  "  So  she  says." 

"And  she  is  the  daughter  of  the  Countess  Sarah 
Macgregor !  "  said  the  stupefied  notary ;  "  and  just  now 
she  offered  me  so  much  to  declare  that  her  daughter 
was  not  dead ;  and  the  girl  is  alive,  and  I  can  restore 
her  to  her  mother !  But,  then,  the  false  register  of  her 
death !  If  a  search  were  made,  I  am  ruined !  This 
crime  may  put  others  on  the  scent." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  he  said  to  Madame 
Seraphin : 

"  This  one-eyed  woman  knows  where  the  child  is  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"  And  the  woman  will  call  again  ?  " 
"  To-morrow." 

"  Write  to  Polidori,  to  come  to  me  this  evening,  at 
nine  o'clock." 

"  What !  Will  you  rid  yourself  of  the  young  girl  and 
the  old  woman,  too  ?  Ferrand,  that  will  be  too  much  at 
once ! " 

"  I  bid  you  write  to  Polidori,  to  come  here  this 
evening,  at  nine  o'clock  !  " 

At  the  end  of  this  day,  Rodolph  said  to  Murphy : 
"  Desire  M.  de  Graiin  to  despatch  a  courier  this 
instant;  Cecily  must  be  in  Paris  in  six  days." 

"  What !  that  she-devil  again  ?   The  diabolical  wife  of 

•  165 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

poor  David,  as  beautiful  as  she  is  infamous !  For  what 
purpose,  monseigneur  ? " 

"  For  what  purpose,  Sir  Walter  Murphy  ?  Ask  that 
question,  in  a  month  hence,  of  the  notary,  Jacques 
Ferrand." 


166 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 

Towards  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  same  day 
in  which  Fleur-de-Marie  was  carried  off  by  the  Chouette 
and  Schoolmaster,  a  man  on  horseback  arrived  at  the 
Bouqueval  farm,  representing  himself  as  coming  from 
M.  Rodolph  to  tranquillise  Madame  Georges  as  to  the 
safety  of  her  young  friend,  Und  to  assure  her  of  her 
safe  return  ere  long.  The  man  further  stated  that  M. 
Rodolph,  having  very  important  reasons  for  making 
the  request,  particularly  desired  no  letters  might  be 
addressed  to  him  at  Paris  for  the  present;  but  that, 
in  the  event  of  Madame  Georges  having  anything 
particular  to  communicate,  the  messenger  now  sent 
would  take  charge  of  it,  and  deliver  it  punctually. 

This  pretended  envoy  on  the  part  of  Rodolph  was, 
in  fact,  an  emissary  sent  by  Sarah,  who,  by  this  strat- 
agem, effected  the  twofold  purpose  of  quieting  the 
apprehensions  of  Madame  Georges  and  also  obtaining 
a  delay  of  several  days  ere  Rodolph  learned  that  the 
Goualeuse  had  been  carried  off ;  during  which  interval 
Sarah  hoped  to  have  induced  the  notary,  Jacques  Fer- 
rand,  to  promote  her  unworthy  attempt  to  impose  a 
supposititious  child  on  Rodolph,  after  the  manner  which 
has  already  been  related.  Nor  was  this  all  the  evil 
planned  by  the  countess ;  she  ardently  desired  to  get 
rid  of  Madame  d'Harville,  on  whose  account  she  enter- 
tained very  serious  misgivings,  and  whose  destruction 
167 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


she  had  so  nearly  compassed,  but  for  the  timely 
interposition  of  Rodolph. 

On  the  day  following  that  in  which  the  marquis 
followed  his  wife  into  the  house  in  the  Rue  du  Temple, 
Tom  repaired  thither,  and,  by  skilfully  drawing  Madame 
Pipelet  into  conversation,  contrived  to  learn  from  her 
how  a  young  and  elegantly  dressed  lady,  upon  the  point 
of  being  surprised  by  her  husband,  had  been  preserved 
through  the  presence  of  mind  and  cleverness  of  a  lodger 
in  the  house,  named  M.  Rodolph. 

Once  informed  of  this  circumstance,  and  possessing 
no  positive  proof  of  the  assignation  made  by  Cle*mence 
with  M.  Charles  Robert,  Sarah  conceived  a  plan  evi- 
dently more  hateful  than  the  former :  she  resolved  to 
despatch  a  second  anonymous  letter  to  M.  d'Harville, 
calculated  to  bring  about  a  complete  rupture  between 
himself  and  Rodolph ;  or,  failing  that,  to  infuse  into  the 
mind  of  the  marquis  suspicions  so  unworthy  of  his 
wife  and  friend  as  should  induce  him  to  forbid  Madame 
d'Harville  ever  admitting  the  prince  into  her  society. 

This  black  and  malignant  epistle  was  couched  in  the 
following  terms : 

"...  You  have  been  grossly  deceived  the  other  day ;  your 
wife,  being  apprised  of  your  following  her,  invented  a  tale  of 
imaginary  beneficence  ;  the  real  purpose  of  her  visit  to  the  Rue 
du  Temple  was  to  fulfil  an  assignation  with  an  august  personage, 
who  has  hired  a  room  on  the  fourth  floor  in  the  house  situated 
Rue  du  Temple,  —  this  illustrious  individual  being  known  only 
at  his  lodging  under  the  simple  name  of  Rodolph.  Should  you 
doubt  these  facts,  which  may  probably  appear  to  you  too  improb- 
able to  deserve  credit,  go  to  No.  17  Rue  du  Temple,  and  make 
due  inquiries ;  obtain  a  description  of  the  face  and  figure  of  the 
august  personage  alluded  to ;  and  you  will  be  compelled  to  own 
yourself  the  most  credulous  and  easily  duped  husband  that  was 
ever  so  royally  supplanted  in  the  affections  of  his  wife.  Despise 
not  this  advice,  if  you  would  not  have  the  world  believe  you 
carry  your  devotion  to  your  prince  rather  too  far." 

This  infamous  concoction  was  put  into  the  post  by 
Sarah  herself,  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the 

1G8 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


day  which  had  witnessed  her  interview  with  the 
notary. 

-On  this  same  day,  after  having  given  renewed  direc- 
tions to  M.  de  Graiin  to  expedite  the  arrival  of  Cecily 
in  Paris  by  every  means  in  his  power,  Rodolph  prepared 

to  pass  the  evening  with  the  Ambassadress  of  ,  and 

on  his  return  to  call  on  Madame  d'Harville,  for  the 
purpose  of  informing  her  he  had  found  a  charitable 
intrigue  worthy  even  of  her  cooperation. 

We  shall  now  conduct  our  readers  to  the  hStel  of 
Madame  d'Harville.  The  following  dialogue  will  abun- 
dantly prove  that,  in  adopting  a  tone  of  kind  and  gentle 
conciliation  towards  a  husband  she  had  hitherto  treated 
with  such  invariable  coldness  and  reserve,  the  heart  of 
Madame  d'Harville  had  already  determined  to  practise 
the  sound  and  virtuous  sentiments  dictated  by  Rodolph. 
The  marquis  and  his  lady  had  just  quitted  the  dinner- 
table,  and  the  scene  we  are  about  to  describe  took  place 
in  the  elegant  little  salon  we  have  already  spoken  of. 
The  features  of  Clemence  wore  an  expression  of  kindness 
almost  amounting  to  tenderness,  and  even  M.  d'Harville 
appeared  less  sad  and  dejected  than  usual.  It  only  remains 
to  premise  that  the  marquis  had  not  as  yet  received  the 
last  infamous  production  of  the  pen  of  Sarah  Macgregor. 

"What  are  your  arrangements  for  this  evening?" 
inquired  M.  d'Harville,  almost  mechanically,  of  his  wife. 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  going  out.  And  what  are 
your  own  plans  ? " 

"  I  hardly  know,"  answered  he,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  feel 
more  than  ordinarily  averse  to  gaiety,  and  I  shall  pass 
my  evening,  as  I  have  passed  many  others,  alone." 

"  Nay,  but  why  alone,  since  I  am  not  going  out  ?  " 

M.  d'Harville  gazed  at  his  wife  as  though  unable  to 
comprehend  her.  "  I  am  aware,"  said  he,  "  that  you 
mentioned  your  intention  to  pass  this  evening  at  home ; 
still,  I  —  " 

"  Pray  go  on,  my  lord." 

169 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  did  not  imagine  you  would  choose  to  have  your 
solitude  broken  in  upon.  I  believe  you  have  always 
expressed  a  wish  to  be  alone  when  you  did  not  receive 
company  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  may  have  done  so,"  said  Cle'mence,  with  a 
smile  ;  "  but  let  me,  for  once,  plead  my  sex's  privilege 
of  changing  my  mind,  and  so,  even  at  the  risk  of  aston- 
ishing you  by  my  caprice,  I  will  own  that  I  should 
greatly  prefer  sharing  my  solitude  with  you,  —  that  is,  if 
it  would  be  quite  agreeable  to  you." 

"  Oh,  how  very  good  of  you,"  exclaimed  M.  d'Harville, 
with  much  delight,  "  thus  to  anticipate  my  most  ardent 
desire,  which  I  durst  not  have  requested  had  you  not 
so  kindly  encouraged  me ! " 

"  Ah,  my  lord,  your  very  surprise  is  a  severe  reproach 
to  me." 

"  A  reproach !  Oh,  not  for  worlds  would  I  have  you 
so  understand  me  !  But  to  find  you  so  kindly  consider- 
ate, so  attentive  to  my  wishes,  after  my  cruel  and  unjust 
conduct  the  other  day,  does,  I  confess,  both  shame  and 
surprise  me ;  though  the  surprise  is  of  the  most  gratify- 
ing and  delightful  sort." 

"  Come,  come,  my  lord,"  said  Madame  d'Harville,  with 
a  smile  of  heavenly  sweetness,  "  let  the  past  be  for  ever 
forgotten  between  us." 

"  Can  you,  C16mence,"  said  M.  d'Harville,  "  can  you 
bring  yourself  to  forget  that  I  have  dared  to  suspect  you ; 
that,  hurried  on  by  a  wild,  insensate  jealousy,  I  meditated 
violence  I  now  shudder  to  think  of  ?  Still,  what  are  even 
these  deep  offences  to  the  greater  and  more  irreparable 
wrong  I  have  done  you  ?  " 

"  Again  I  say,"  returned  Cl^mence,  making  a  violent 
effort  to  command  herself,  "  let  us  forget  the  past." 

"  What  do  I  hear  ?  Can  you,  —  oh,  is  it  possible  you 
will  pardon  me,  and  forget  all  the  past  ? " 

"  I  will  try  to  do  so,  and  I  fear  not  but  I  shall  succeed." 

"  Oh,  Cle'mence !  Can  you,  indeed,  be  so  generous  ? 
170 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


But  no,  no,  —  I  dare  not  hope  it !  I  have  long  since 
resigned  all  expectation  that  such  happiness  would  ever 
"be  mine." 

"  And  now  you  see  how  wrong  you  were  in  coming 
to  such  a  conclusion.' ' 

"  But  how  comes  this  blessed  change  ?  Or  do  I  dream  ? 
Speak  to  me,  Cldmence  !  Tell  me  I  am  not  deceiving 
myself,  —  that  all  is  not  mere  illusion !  Speak  !  Say  that 
I  may  trust  my  senses  !  " 

"  Indeed  you  may  ;  I  mean  all  I  have  said." 

"  And,  now  I  look  at  you,  I  see  more  kindness  in  your 
eye,  —  your  manner  is  less  cold,  —  your  voice  tremulous. 
Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me,  is  this  indeed  true  ?  Or  am  I  the 
sport  of  some  illusion  ?  " 

"  Nay,  my  lord,  all  is  true,  and  safely  to  be  believed. 
I,  too,  have  need  of  pardon  at  your  hands,  and  therefore 
I  propose  that  we  mutually  exchange  forgiveness." 

"You,  Clemence !  You  need  forgiveness  !  Oh,  for  what, 
or  wherefore  ?  " 

"  Have  I  not  been  frequently  unkind,  unrelenting,  and 
perhaps  even  cruel,  towards  you  ?  Ought  I  not  to  have 
remembered  that  it  required  a  more  than  ordinary  share 
of  courage  to  act  otherwise  than  you  did,  —  a  virtue  more 
than  human  to  renounce  the  hope  of  exchanging  a  cheer- 
less, solitary  life,  for  one  of  wedded  sympathy  and  happi- 
ness ?  Alas,  when  we  are  in  grief  or  suffering,  it  is  so 
natural  to  trust  to  the  kindness  and  goodness  of  others  ! 
Hitherto  your  fault  has  been  in  depending  too  much  on 
-  my  generosity  ;  henceforward  it  shall  be  my  aim  to  show 
you,  you  have  not  trusted  in  vain."  . 

"  Oh,  go  on !  Go  on !  Continue  still  to  utter  such 
heavenly  words  ! "  exclaimed  M.  d'Harville,  gazing  in 
almost  ecstasy  on  the  countenance  of  his  wife,  and  clasp- 
ing his  hands  in  fervid  supplication.  "  Let  me  again 
hear  you  pronounce  my  pardon,  and  it  will  seem  as 
though  a  new  existence  were  opening  upon  me." 

"  Our  destinies  are  inseparably  united,  and  death  only 
171 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


can  dissever  us.  Believe  me,  it  shall  for  the  future  be  my 
study  to  render  life  less  painful  to  you  than  it  has  been." 

"  Merciful  Heaven  !  Do  I  hear  aright  ?  Clemence,  can 
it  be  you  who  have  spoken  these  dear,  these  enchanting 
words  ?" 

"  Let  me  conjure  you  to  spare  me  the  pain  and  humil- 
iation of  hearing  you  express  so  much  astonishment  at 
my  speaking  as  my  duty  prompts  me  to  do ;  indeed, 
your. reluctance  to  credit  my  assertions  grieves  me  more 
than  I  can  describe.  How  cruel  a  censure  does  it  imply 
upon  my  past  conduct !  Ah,  who  will  pity  and  soothe 
you  in  your  severe  trials,  if  not  I  ?  I  seem  inspired  by 
some  holy  voice,  speaking  within  my  breast,  to  reflect 
upon  my  past  conduct.  I  have  deeply  meditated  on  all 
that  has  happened,  as  well  as  on  the  future.  My  faults 
rise  up  in  judgment  against  me  ;  but  with  them  come 
also  the  whisperings  of  my  awakened  feelings,  teaching 
me  how  to  repair  my  past  errors." 

"  Your  errors,  my  poor  injured  Clemence !  Alas,  you 
were  not  to  blame !  " 

"  Yes,  I  was.  I  ought  frankly  to  have  appealed  to 
your  honour  to  release  me  from  the  painful  necessity  of 
living  with  you  as  your  wife  ;  and  that,,  too,  on  the  day 
following  our  marriage,  —  " 

"  Clemence,  for  pity's  sake  no  more  ! " 

"  Otherwise,  in  accepting  my  position,  I  ought  to  have 
elevated  it  by  my  entire  submission  and  devotion.  Under 
the  circumstances  in  which  I  was  placed,  instead  of  allow- 
ing my  coldness  and  proud  reserve  to  act  as  a  continual 
reproach,  I  should  have  directed  all  my  endeavours  to 
console  you  for  so  heavy  a  misfortune,  and  have  forgotten 
everything  but  the  severe  affliction  under  which  you 
laboured.  By  degrees  I  should  have  become  attached  to 
my  work  of  commiseration,  and,  probably,  the  very  cares 
and  sacrifices  it  would  have  required  to  fulfil  my  volun- 
tary duty  ;  for  which  your  grateful  appreciation  would 
have  been  a  rich  reward.  I  might,  at  last  —  But  what 
172 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


ails  you,  my  lord  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  Surely  you  are 
weeping ! " 

"  But  they  are  tears  of  pure  delight.  Ah,  you  can 
scarcely  imagine  what  new  emotions  are  awakened  in  my 
heart !  Heed  not  my  tears,  beloved  Clemence ;  trust 
me,  they  flow  from  an  excess  of  happiness,  arising  from 
those  dear  words  you  just  now  uttered.  Never  did  I 
seem  so  guilty  in  my  own  eyes  as  I  now  appear,  for 
having  selfishly  bound  you  to  such  a  life  as  mine ! " 

"  And  never  did  I  find  myself  more  disposed  to  forget 
the  past,  and  to  bury  all  reference  to  it  in  oblivion ;  the 
sight  of  your  gently  falling  tears,  even,  seems  to  open  to 
me  a  source  of  happiness  hitherto  unknown  to  me. 
Courage  !  Courage  !  Let  us,  in  place  of  that  bright  and 
prosperous  life  denied  us  by  Providence,  seek  our  enjoy- 
ment  in  the  discharge  of  the  serious  duties  allotted  us. 
Let  us  be  mutually  indulgent  and  forbearing  towards 
each  other ;  and,  should  our  resolution  fail,  let  us  turn 
to  our  child,  and  make  her  the  depositary  of  all  our 
affections.  Thus  shall  we  secure  to  ourselves  an  unfail- 
ing store  of  holy,  of  tranquil  joys." 

"  Sure,  'tis  some  angel  speaks ! "  cried  M.  d'Harville, 
contemplating  Ms  wife  with  impassioned  looks.  "  Oh, 
Clemence,  you  little  know  the  pleasure  and  the  pain 
you  cause  me.  The  severest  reproach  you  ever  addressed 
me  —  your  hardest  word  or  most  merited  rebuke  never 
touched  me  as  does  this  angelic  devotion,  this  disregard 
of  self,  this  generous  sacrifice  of  personal  enjoyment. 
Even  despite  myself,  I  feel  hope  spring  up  within  me. 
I  clare  hardly  trust  myself  to  believe  the  blessed  future 
which  suggests  itself  to  my  imagination." 

"  Ah,  you  may  safely  and  implicitly  believe  all  I  say, 
Albert !  I  declare  to  you,  by  all  that  is  sacred  and 
solemn,  that  I  have  firmly  taken  the  resolution  I  spoke 
of,  and  that  I  will  adhere  to  it  in  strictest  word  and 
deed.  Hereafter  I  may  even  be  enabled  to  give  you 
further  pledges  of  my  truth." 

173 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Pledges ! "  exclaimed  M.  d'Harville,  more  and  more 
excited  by  a  happiness  so  wholly  unlooked  for.  "  What 
need  have  I  of  any  pledges  ?  Do  not  your  look,  your 
tone,  the  heavenly  expression  of  goodness  which  animates 
your  countenance,  the  rapturous  pulsations  of  my  own 
heart,  all  convince  me  of  the  truth  of  your  words  ? 
But,  Cle'mence,  man,  you  know,  is  a  creature  not  easily 
satisfied ;  and,"  added  the  marquis,  approaching  his 
wife's  chair,  "  your  noble,  generous  conduct  inspires 
me  with  the  boldness,  the  courage,  to  hope  —  to  hope, 
—  yes,  Cle'mence,  to  venture  to  hope  for  that  which, 
only  yesterday,  I  should  have  considered  it  even  worse 
than  madness  to  presume  to  think  of." 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  explain  yourself !  "  said  Cle'mence, 
alarmed  at  the  impassioned  words  and  glances  of  her 
husband. 

"  Yes,"  cried  he,  seizing  her  hand,  "  yes,  by  dint  of 
tender,  untiring,  unwearied  love,  —  Cle'mence,  do  you 
understand  me  ?  —  I  say,  by  dint  of  love  such  as  mine 
I  venture  to  hope  to  obtain  a  return  of  my  affection.  I 
dare  to  anticipate  being  loved  by  you,  —  not  with  a  cold, 
lukewarm  regard,  but  with  a  passion  ardent  as  my  own 
for  you.  Ah,  you  know  not  the  real  nature  of  such  a 
love  as  I  would  inspire  you  with !  Alas !  I  never  even 
dared  to  breathe  it  in  your  ears,  —  so  frigid,  so  repul- 
sive were  you  to  me.  Never  did  you  bestow  on  me 
a  look,  a  word  of  kindness,  far  less  make  my  heart  leap 
with  such  joy  as  thrilled  through  my  breast  but  now, 
when  your  words  of  sweet  and  gentle  tenderness  drew 
happy  tears  from  my  eyes,  and  which,  still  ringing  in 
my  ears,  make  me  almost  beside  myself  with  gladness ; 
and,  amid  the  intoxicating  delight  which  floats  through 
my  brain,  comes  the  proud  consciousness  of  having 
earned  even  so  rich  a  reward  by  the  deep,  the  passion- 
ate ardour  of  my  love  for  you.  Oh,  Cle'mence,  when 
you  will  let  me  only  tell  you  half  I  have  suffered,  — 
how  I  have  writhed  in  despairing  anguish  at  your 
174 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


coldness,  your  disdain,  how  I  have  watched  and 
sigh«d  in  vain  for  one  encouraging  glance,  —  you  will 
own  that,  for  patient  devotion  to  one  beloved  object, 
I  am  inferior  to  none.  Whence  arose  that  melancholy, 
that  avoidance  of  all  society,  our  best  friends  have  so 
fruitlessly  sought  to  rouse  me  from  ?  Can  you  not  guess 
the  cause  ?  Ah,  it  originated  in  desolation  of  spirit  and 
despair  of  ever  obtaining  your  love.  Yes,  dearest  Cle- 
mence,  to  that  overwhelming  dread  was  owing  the 
sombre  taciturnity,  the  dislike  to  company,  the  despond- 
ing gloom,  which  excited  so  many  different  conjectures. 
Think,  too,  how  much  my  sufferings  must  have  been 
increased  by  the  fact  that  she,  the  beloved  object  of 
my  heart's  idolatry,  was  my  own,  —  legally,  irrevocably 
mine,  —  dwelling  beneath  the  same  roof,  yet  more  com- 
pletely alienated  from  me  than  though  we  dwelt  in  the 
opposite  parts  of  the  earth.  But  my  burning  sighs,  my 
bitter  tears,  reached  not  you ;  or,  I  feel  almost  persuaded, 
they  would  have  moved  even  you  to  pity  me.  And  now 
it  seems  to  me  that  you  must  have  divined  my  suffer- 
ings, and  have  come,  like  an  angel  of  goodness  as  you 
are,  to  whisper  in  my  ears  bright  promises  of  days  of 
unclouded  happiness.  No  longer  shall  I  be  doomed 
to  gaze  in  unavailing  yet  doting  admiration  on  your 
graceful  beauty ;  no  more  shall  I  account  myself  most 
blessed  yet  most  accursed  in  possessing  a  creature  of 
matchless  excellence,  whose  charms  of  mind  and  body, 
alas !  I  am  forbidden  to  consider  as  mine ;  but  now  the 
envious  barrier  which  has  thus  long  divided  us  is  about 
to  be  withdrawn,  and  the  treasure  my  beating  heart 
tells  me  is  all  my  own  will  henceforward  be  freely,  indis- 
putably mine  !  Will  it  not,  dear  Clemence  ?  Speak  to 
me,  and  confirm  that  which  the  busy  throbbings  of  my 
joyful  heart  tell  me  to  hope  for  and  expect,  as  the  reward 
of  all  I  have  so  long  endured !  " 

As  M.  d'Harville  uttered  these  last  words,  he  seized 
the  hand  of  his  wife,  and  covered  it  with  passionate 
175 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


kisses  ;  while  C16mence,  much  grieved  at  the  mistake 
her  husband  had  fallen  into,  could  not  avoid  withdraw- 
ing her  hand  with  a  mixture  of  terror  and  disgust. 
And  the  expression  of  her  countenance  so  plainly  be- 
spoke her  feelings,  that  M.  d'Harville  saw  at  once  the 
fearful  error  he  had  committed.  The  blow  fell  with 
redoubled  force  after  the  tender  visions  he  had  so  lately- 
conjured  up.  A  look  of  intense  agony  replaced  the 
bright  exultation  of  his  countenance  exhibited  a  little 
while  since,  when  Madame  d'Harville,  eagerly  extending 
her  hand  towards  him,  said,  in  an  agitated  tone  : 

"  Albert,  receive  my  solemn  promise  to  be  unto  you  as 
the  most  tender  and  affectionate  sister,  —  but  nothing 
more.  Forgive  me,  I  beseech  you,  if,  inadvertently,  my 
words  have  inspired  you  with  hopes  which  can  never  be 
realised." 

"  Never  ? "  exclaimed  M.  d'Harville,  fixing  on  his 
wife  a  look  of  despairing  entreaty. 

"  Never ! "  answered  she.  The  single  word,  with  the 
tone  in  which  it  was  spoken,  proved  but  too  well  the 
irrevocable  decision  Cle'mence  had  formed. 

Brought  back,  by  the  influence  of  Rodolph,  to  all  her 
nobleness  of  character,  Madame  d'Harville  had  firmly 
resolved  to  bestow  on  her  husband  every  kind  and 
affectionate  attention  ;  but  to  love  him  she  felt  utterly 
out  of  her  power;  and  to  this  immutable  resolution 
she  was  driven  by  a  power  more  forcible  than  either 
fear,  contempt,  or  even  dislike,  —  it  was  a  species 
of  repugnance  almost  amounting  to  horror. 

After  a  painful  silence  of  some  duration,  M.  d'Harville 
passed  his  hand  across  his  moist  eyelids  and  said,  in  a 
voice  of  bitterness  : 

"  Let  me  entreat  your  pardon  for  the  unintentional 
mistake  I  have  made.  Oh,  refuse  not  to  forgive  me  for 
having  ventured  to  believe  that  happiness  could  exist 
for  me  I" 

And  again  a  long  pause  ensued,  broken  at  last  by 
176 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


D'Harville's  vehemently  exclaiming,  "What  a  wretch 
ami!" 

"Albert,"  said  Cl^mence,  gently,  "for  worlds  would 
I  not  reproach  you;  yet  is  my  promise  of  being  unto 
you  the  most  loving  and  affectionate  of  sisters  unworthy 
any  estimation  ?  You  will  receive  from  the  tender  cares 
of  devoted  friendship  more  solid  happiness  than  love 
could  afford.  Look  forward  to  brighter  days.  Hitherto 
you  have  found  me  almost  indifferent  to  your  sorrows ; 
you  shall  henceforward  find  me  all  zeal  and  solicitude 
to  alleviate  them,  and  eager  to  share  with  you  every 
grief  or  cause  of  suffering,  whether  of  body  or  of  mind." 

At  this  moment  a  servant,  throwing  open  the  folding 
doors,  announced : 

"  His  Highness  the  Grand  Duke  of  Gerolstein." 

M.  d'Harville  started ;  then-  by  a  powerful  effort, 
recovering  his  self-command,  he  advanced  to  meet  his 
visitor. 

"  I  am  singularly  fortunate,  madame,"  said  Rodolph, 
approaching  Clemence,  "  to  find  you  at  home  to-night ; 
and  I  am  still  more  delighted  with  my  good  fortune, 
since  it  procures  me  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you, 
also,  my  dear  Albert,"  continued  he,  turning  to  the 
marquis,  and  shaking  him  cordially  by  the  hand. 

"  It  is,  indeed,  some  time  since  I  have  had  the  honour 
of  paying  my  respects  to  your  royal  highness." 

"  If  the  truth  must  be  spoken,  my  dear  Albert,"  said 
the  prince,  smilingly,  "  you  are  somewhat  platonic  in 
your  friendships,  and,  relying  on  the  certain  attachment 
of  your  friends,  care  very  little  about  either  giving  or 
receiving  any  outward  proof  of  affection." 

By  a  breach  of  etiquette,  which  somewhat  annoyed 
Madame  d'Harville,  a  servant  here  entered  the  room 
with  a  letter  for  the  marquis.  It  was  the  anonymous 
epistle  of  Sarah,  accusing  Rodolph  of  being  the  lover  of 
Madame  d'Harville. 

The  marquis,  out  of  deference  for  the  prince,  put 
177 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


away  with  his  hand  the  small  silver  salver  presented 
to  him  by  the  servant,  saying,  in  an  undertone : 

"  Another  time, —  another  time." 

"  My  dear  Albert,"  said  Rodolph,  in  a  voice  of  the 
most  genuine  affection,  "  why  all  this  ceremony  with 
me?" 

«  My  lord !  " 

"  With  Madame  d'Harville's  permission,  let  me  beg  of 
you  to  read  your  letter  without  delay." 

"  I  assure  you,  my  lord,  it  is  not  of  the  slightest 
consequence." 

"  Again  I  say,  Albert,  read  your  letter  all  the  same 
for  my  being  here." 

"  But,  my  lord,  indeed  —  " 

"  Nay,  I  ask  you  to  do  so ;  or,  if  you  will  have  it, 
I  desire  you  to  read  it  immediately." 

"  If  your  highness  commands  it,  my  duty  is  obedi- 
ence," said  the  marquis,  taking  the  letter  from  the 
salver. 

"  Yes,  I  positively  command  you  to  treat  me  as  one 
old  friend  ought  to  treat  another."  Then  turning 
towards  Madame  d'Harville,  while  the  marquis  was 
breaking  the  seal  of  the  fatal  letter,  the  contents  of 
which  were,  of  course,  unknown  to  Rodolph,  he  said, 
smilingly,  to  Madame  d'Harville : 

"  What  a  triumph  for  you,  madame,  to  bend  this 
untractable  spirit,  and  make  it  bow  to  your  very 
caprice ! " 

M.  d'Harville  having  opened  Sarah's  infamous  letter, 
approached  the  wax-lights  burning  on  the  mantelpiece, 
the  better  to  read  it.  His  features  bore  no  visible  mark 
of  agitation  as  he  perused  the  vile  scrawl.  A  slight 
trembling  of  the  hand  alone  was  visible,  as,  after  a  short 
hesitation,  he  refolded  the  paper  and  placed  it  in  the 
pocket  of  his  waistcoat. 

"  At  the  risk  of  passing  for  a  perfect  Goth,"  said  he, 
with  a  smile,  to  Rodolph,  "  I  will  ask  you  to  excuse  me, 
17S 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


my  lord,  while  I  retire  to  reply  to  this  letter,  which  is 
more  important  than  it  at  first  appeared." 

"  Shall  I  not  see  you  again  this  evening  ? " 

"  I  am  fearful  I  shall  not  have  that  honour,  my  lord ; 
and  I  trust  year  royal  highness  will  condesceid  to  excuse 
me." 

"  What  a  slippery  person  you  are ! "  cried  Rodolph, 
gaily.  "  Will  you  not,  madame,  endeavour  to  prevent 
his  quitting  us  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  dare  not  attempt  that  your  highness  has  failed 
to  accomplish." 

"  But  seriously,  my  dear  Albert,  endeavour  to  come 
back  as  soon  as  you  have  concluded  your  letter ;  or,  if 
that  is  not  possible,  promise  to  give  me  a  few  minutes 
in  the  morning.  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to 
you." 

"  Your  highness  overwhelms  me  with  kindness," 
answered  the  marquis,  as,  bowing  profoundly,  he  with- 
drew, leaving  Cle'mence  and  the  prince  alone. 

"  Your  husband  has  some  heavy  care  on  his  mind," 
observed  Rudolph  to  the  marquise ;  "  his  smile  appeared 
to  me  a  forced  one." 

"  At  the  moment  of  your  highness's  arrival,  M.  d'Har- 
ville  was  much  excited,  and  he  has  had  great  difficulty 
in  concealing  his  agitation  from  you." 

"  My  \isit  was,  probably,  mal  d  propos?" 

"  Oh,  no,  my  lord  !  You  came  just  in  time  to  spare 
me  the  conclusion  of  a  most  painful  conversation." 

"  Indeed !    May  I  inquire  the  subject  of  it  ?" 

"  I  had  explained  to  M.  d'Harville  the  line  of  conduct 
I  had  determined  to  pursue  towards  him  for  the  future, 
assuring  him  of  my  future  sympathy  and  affectionate 
attention  to  his  happiness." 

"  How  happy  you  must  have  rendered  him  by  such 
gratifying  words !  " 

"  He  did,  indeed,  at  first,  seem  most  truly  happy  ;  and 
so  was  I,  likewise ;  for  his  tears  and  his  joys  caused  in 
179 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


me  a  feeling  of  delight  I  never  before  experienced.  Once 
I  fancied  I  did  but  indulge  a  just  revenge  each  time  I 
addressed  to  him  a  reproach  or  a  sarcasm ;  but  it  was 
a  weak  and  impotent  mode  of  torture,  which  always 
recoiled  upon  myself,  as  my  better  judgment  pointed  out 
the  unworthiness  of  such  conduct ;  while  just  now  how 
great  was  the  difference !  I  had  inquired  of  my  husband 
if  he  were  going  out,  to  which  he  mournfully  replied 
that  he  had  no  intention  of  so  "doing,  but  should  pass  the 
evening  alone,  as  he  most  frequently  did.  Ah,  my  lord, 
could  you  but  have  seen  his  surprise  when  I  offered  to 
be  his  companion,  and  how  suddenly  did  the  gloomy 
expression  of  his  features  give  place  to  a  bright  glow 
of  happiness !  Ah,  you  were  quite  right,  there  is  noth- 
ing more  really  delightful  than  preparing  happy  surprises 
for  those  around  us." 

"  But  how  could  so  much  kindness  on  your  part  have 
brought  about  the  painful  conversation  you  were  alluding 
to  just  now  ?  " 

"  Alas,  my  lord  !  "  said  Clemence,  blushing  deeply, 
"  M.  d'Harville,  not  satisfied  with  the  hopes  I  felt  myself 
justified  in  holding  out,  allowed  himself  to  form  others 
of  a  nature  too  tender  to  admit  of  their  being  realised, 
and  in  proportion  to  my  consciousness  of  my  utter 
inability  to  respond  to  such  sentiments  had  been  my 
anxiety  not  to  arouse  them ;  and,  greatly  as  I  had  felt 
touched  by  the  warmth  of  my  husband's  gratitude  for  my 
proffered  affection,  I  was  even  still  more  terrified  and 
alarmed  by  the  passionate  ardour  of  his  manner  and 
expressions ;  and  when,  carried  away  by  the  impetuosity 
of  his  feelings,  he  pressed  his  lips  upon  my  hand,  a  cold 
shudder  pervaded  my  whole  frame,  and  I  found  it  impos- 
sible to  conceal  the  disgust  and  alarm  I  experienced. 
Doubtless  this  manifestation  of  my  invincible  repug- 
nance pained  him  deeply,  and  I  much  lament  having 
been  unable  to  prevent  his  perceiving  my  feelings.  But 
now  that  the  blow  has  fallen,  it  will,  at  least,  serve  to 
180 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


convince  M.  d'Harville  of  the  utter  impossibility  of  my 
ever  being  more  to  him  than  the  most  tender  and  devoted 
friend." 

"  I  pity  him  most  sincerely,  without  being  able  to 
blame  you  in  the  slightest  degree  for  the  part  you  have 
acted.  There  are  certain  feelings  which  must  ever  be 
held  sacred.  But  poor  Albert !  With  his  noble,  generous 
spirit,  his  frank,  confiding  nature,  his  warm,  enthusiastic 
heart,  — if  you  only  knew  how  long  I  have  been  vainly 
trying  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  hidden  melancholy 
which  was  evidently  preying  upon  his  health.  Well,  we 
must  trust  to  the  soothing  effects  of  time  and  reason. 
By  degrees  he  will  become  more  sensible  of  the  value  of 
the  affection  you  offer  him,  and  he  will  resign  himself 
as  he  did  before,  when  he  had  not  the  consolatory  hopes 
you  now  present  to  his  view." 

"  Hopes  which  I  solemnly  assure  you,  my  lord,  it 
is  my  fixed  determination  to  realise  in  their  fullest 
extent." 

"  And  now  let  us  turn  our  attention  to  others  who  are 
also  called  upon  to  suffer  and  taste  of  heavy  sorrows. 
You  know  I  promised  to  occupy  you  in  a  charitable 
work,  which  should  have  all  the  charm  of  a  romance  of 
real  life ;  and  I  am  here  to  perform  my  promise." 

"  What,  already,  my  lord  ?  Indeed,  you  rejoice  me 
greatly." 

"  It  was  a  most  fortunate  idea  of  mine  to  hire  the 
small  chamber  I  told  you  of  in  the  Rue  du  Temple ;  you 
can  scarcely  imagine  all  the  curious  and  interesting 
objects  it  has  made  me  acquainted  with.  In  the  first 
place  your  poor  prote'ge's  in  the  garrets  are  now  enjoying 
that  happiness  your  presence  secured  to  them.  They 
have  still  some  severe  trials  to  undergo ;  but  I  will  not 
enter  upon  the  painful  details  at  the  present  moment. 
One  of  these  days  you  shall  learn  how  many  direful  evils 
may  be  heaped  upon  one  unfortunate  family." 

"  How  grateful  they  must  feel  towards  you  !  " 
181 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Nay,  'tis  your  name  is  ever  on  their  lips,  loaded  with 
praises  and  blessings." 

"Ah,  my  lord,  is  it  then  in  my  name  you  have 
succoured  them  ? " 

"  To  increase  the  value  of  the  gift,  I  confess  I  did 
presume  to  name  you  as  their  benefactress.  Besides, 
what  have  I  done  more  than  carry  out  your  promises  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  allow  of  even  this  pious  fraud,  and  to-morrow 
they  shall  learn  from  me  whom  they  have  to  thank. 
I  will  tell  them  the  extent  of  their  obligations  to 
you." 

"  Oh,  pray  do  no  such  thing,  or  you  will  spoil  all  my 
fine  schemes.  Remember  that  I  have  a  small  apartment 
in  the  house ;  that  for  the  sake  of  much  good  I  hope  to 
effect,  I  am  anxious  to  preserve  a  strict  incognito  there. 
Recollect,  also,  that  the  Morels  are  now  beyond  the  reach 
of  further  distress ;  and,  finally,  let  me  remind  you  that 
there  are  other  claimants  for  your  benevolence.  And 
now  for  the  subject  of  our  present  intrigue.  I  want  your 
generous  aid  and  assistance  in  behalf  of  a  mother  and 
daughter,  who  from  former  affluence  are  at  this  moment 
reduced  to  the  most  abject  penury,  in  consequence  of 
having  been  most  villainously  despoiled  of  their  just 
rights." 

"  Poor  things !  And  where  do  these  unfortunate  beings 
reside,  my  lord  ? " 
"  1  do  not  know." 

"  Then  how  did  you  become  acquainted  with  their 
misfortunes  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  I  was  at  the  Temple,  —  perhaps,  -Madame 
la  Marquise,  you  do  not  know  what  sort  of  place  the 
Temple  is?" 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  do  not." 

"  It  is  a  bazaar  of  the  most  amusing  description.  Well, 
I  went  there  for  the  purpose  of  making  several  purchases 
in  company  with  a  female  lodger  who  occupies  an  apart- 
ment adjoining  my  own  —  " 
182 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


"  Indeed !    A  female  neighbour  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  next-door  neighbour  on  the  fourth  floor. 
Don't  you  recollect  I  told  you  I  had  a  chamber  in  the 
Rue  du  Temple?" 

"Pardon  me,  my  lord,  I  had  quite  forgotten  that 
circumstance." 

"  I  must  tell  you  that  this  same  neighbour  is  one  of 
the  prettiest  little  mantua-makers  you  ever  saw.  She  is 
called  Rigolette,  is  for  ever  laughing,  and  never  was  in 
love." 

"  Upon  my  word,  a  most  uncommon  specimen  of  her 
class!" 

"  She  even  admits  that  her  indifference  to  the  tender 
passion  arises  less  from  prudence  than  because  she  has 
not  time  to  think  about  love  or  lovers,  both  of  which  she 
says  would  take  up  too  much  of  her  time ;  as,  working 
from  twelve  to  fifteen  hours  daily,  it  is  with  difficulty 
she  manages  to  earn  twenty-five  sous  a  day,  yet  on  that 
trifling  sum  she  lives  contentedly." 

"  Is  it  possible  ? " 

"  Possible !  .Why,  she  even  launches  out  into  luxuries, 
—  has  a  couple  of  birds,  who  consume  as  much  food  as 
herself,  arranges  her  chamber  with  the  most  scrupulous 
and  pretty  neatness,  while  her  dress  would  make  a  mod- 
ern belle  grow  pale  with  envy." 

"  And  all  this  effected  upon  five  and  twenty  sous  a 
day  ?   It  is  almost  difficult  to  believe  it." 

"  I  assure  you  my  fair  neighbour  is  a  pattern  of 
industry,  order,  economy,  and  practical  philosophy ;  and 
as  such  I  beg  to  recommend  her  to  your  notice  in  her 
capacity  of  dressmaker,  in  which  she  is  reported  to  have 
much  skill.  If  you  will  honour  her  with  your  com- 
mands, her  fortune  will  be  surely  made ;  although 
there  is  no  occasion  for  your  carrying  your  benefi- 
cence so  far  as  to  wear  the  dresses  you  permit  her 
to  make." 

"  Oh,  I  will  take  care  to  give  her  employment  imme- 

183 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


diately.  Poor  girl !  living  honestly  and  contentedly 
upon  a  sum  squandered  by  the  rich  for  the  most 
trifling  whim  or  caprice." 

"  Well,  now  then  that  you  have  undertaken  to  interest 
yourself  in  my  deserving  young  neighbour,  let  us  proceed 
to  the  little  adventure  I  was  about  to  relate  to  you.  I 
went,  as  I  told  you,  to  the  Temple  with  Mile.  Rigolette 
in  order  to  purchase  many  articles  necessary  for  the 
comfort  of  the  poor  family  in  the  garret,  when,  accident- 
ally examining  the  drawers  of  an  old  secretaire  exposed 
for  sale,  I  found  the  fragment  of  a  letter  in  a  female 
hand,  in  which  the  writer  bitterly  deplored  the  destitu- 
tion to  which  herself  and  daughter  were  exposed  in 
consequence  of  the  villainy  of  the  person  in  whose 
hands  their  money  had  been  placed.  I  inquired  of 
the  mistress  of  the  shop  how  she  became  possessed 
of  the  piece  of  furniture  in  question.  She  told  me  it 
was  part  of  a  lot  of  very  common  household  goods  she 
purchased  of  a  person  still  young,  who  had  evidently 
disposed  of  all  her  effects  from  stern  necessity,  and 
being  without  any  other  means  of  raising  money.  Both 
'  mother  and  daughter,  continued  my  informant,  seemed 
much  superior  to  their  condition,  and  each  bore  their 
distress  with  a  proud  yet  calm  fortitude." 

"And  do  you  not  know  where  these  poor  ladies  can 
be  found,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  I  do  not,  unfortunately,  at  the  present  moment,  but 
I  have  given  directions  to  M.  de  Graiin  to  use  every 
effort  to  discover  them,  and,  if  needs  must  be,  even  to 
apply  to  the  police  for  assistance.  It  is  just  probable 
that  the  unfortunate  parent  and  child,  finding  them- 
selves stripped  of  their  little  stock  of  furniture,  may 
have  sought  refuge  in  some  obscure  lodging ;  and  if  so, 
there  is  every  chance  of  discovering  their  abode,  since 
the  keepers  of  lodging-houses  are  obliged  to  write  a 
daily  report  of  every  fresh  inmate  they  receive." 

"  What  a  singular  combination  of  events ! "  said 
184 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


Madame  d'Harville,  much  astonished:  "Your  account 
is,  indeed,  a  most  interesting  one." 

"iTou  have  not  heard  all  yet.  In  a  corner  of  the 
fragment  of  writing  found  in  the  old  secretaire,  are 
these  words, '  To  write  to  Madame  de  Lucenay.' " 

"  Oh,  how  fortunate  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  d'Harville, 
with  much  animation.  "  No  doubt  the  duchess  can  tell 
me  all  about  these  unfortunate  ladies.  But  then,"  added 
she,  thoughtfully,  "  I  do  not  see,  after  all,  how  we  shall 
be  able  to  describe  them,  as  we  do  not  even  know  their 
name." 

"  Nay,  it  will  be  easy  to  inquire  whether  she  is 
acquainted  with  a  widow  still  in  the  prime  of  life, 
whose  air  and  manner  indicate  her  being  far  superior 
to  her  present  circumstances,  and  who  has  a  daughter 
about  sixteen  years  of  age  named  Claire.  I  am  sure  it 
was  Claire  the  woman  told  me  the  younger  female  was 
called." 

"  How  very  strange  !  That  is  my  child's  name ;  and 
furnishes  an  additional  reason  for  my  interesting  myself 
in  their  misfortunes." 

"  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  brother  of  this  unhappy 
widow  died  by  his  own  hands  a  very  few  months  ago." 

Madame  d'Harville  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  as 
though  reflecting  deeply  ;  at  length  she  said  : 

"If  Madame  de  Lucenay  be  in  any  way  acquainted 
with  this  unfortunate  family,  these  particulars  will  be 
quite  sufficient  to  identify  them;  besides  which  the 
lamentable  end  of  the  brother  must  have  fixed  every 
circumstance  connected  with  them  more  strongly  in 
her  memory.  How  impatient  I  feel  to  question  the 
duchess  on  the  subject!  I  will  write  her  a  note  this 
very  evening,  begging  of  her  not  to  go  out  to-morrow 
till  I  have  seen  her.  Who  can  these  interesting  people 
be?  From  your  account,  my  lord,  I  should  say  they 
certainly  belong  to  the  higher  class  of  society,  and  must, 
therefore,  feel  their  present  distress  so  much  the  more 
185 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


keenly.  Alas,  to  such  as  they  the  falling  into  such 
utter  destitution  must  inflict  a  deeper,  keener  sting  !  " 

"  And  all  their  sufferings  have  arisen  from  the 
knavery  of  an  unprincipled  scoundrel,  —  a  notary,  named 
Jacques  Ferrand.  But  I  am  in  possession  of  other  acts 
of  villainy  on  his  part  equally  black  with  this." 

"That  is  the  name  of  the  person  acting  as  the 
legal  adviser  both  of  my  husband  and  mother-in-law," 
exclaimed  Clemence ;  "  and,  indeed,  my  lord,  I  think 
you  must  be  mistaken  in  your  opinion  of  him,  for  he 
is  universally  regarded  as  a  person  of  the  strictest 
honour  and  probity." 

"  I  assure  you  I  have  the  most  irrefragable  proofs 
of  what  I  assert.  Meanwhile  let  me  beg  of  you  to  be 
perfectly  silent  as  to  the  character  I  assign  this  man, 
who  is  as  subtle  as  unprincipled ;  and  the  better  to 
unmask  his  nefarious  practices,  it  is  necessary  he 
should  be  allowed  to  think  himself  secure  from  all 
danger ;  a  few  days  will  enable  me  to  perfect  my 
schemes  for  bringing  him  to  a  severe  reckoning.  He 
it  was  who  brought  such  unmerited  affliction  upon  the 
interesting  females  I  have  been  telling  you  of,  by 
defrauding  them  of  a  large  sum,  which,  it  appears, 
was  consigned  to  his  care  by  the  brother  of  the 
unfortunate  widow." 

"  And  this  money  ?  " 

"  Was  their  sole  dependence." 

"  This  is,  indeed,  a  crime  of  the  most  heinous  descrip- 
tion ! " 

"  'Tis,  indeed,  of  blackest  die,"  exclaimed  Rodolph, 
"  having  nothing  to  extenuate  it,  and  originating  neither 
in  passion  nor  necessity.  The  pangs  of  hunger  will  often 
instigate  a  man  to  commit  a  theft,  the  thirst  for  revenge 
lead  on  to  murder ;  but  this  legal  hypocrite  is  passing 
rich,  and  invested,  by  common  consent,  with  a  character 
of  almost  priestly  sanctity,  while  his  countenance  and 
manners  are  moulded  with  such  studious  art  as  to  inspire 
186 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 

and  command  universal  confidence.  The  assassin  kills 
you  at  a  blow,  —  this  villain  tortures,  prolongs  your  suf- 
ferings, and  leaves  you,  after  the  death-blow  has  been 
inflicted,  to  sink  under  the  gnawing  agonies  of  want, 
misery,  and  despair.  Nothing  is  safe  from  the  cupidity 
of  such  a  man  as  Ferrand  :  the  inheritance  of  the  orphan, 
the  hard-earned  savings  of  the  laborious  poor,  —  all 
excite  alike  his  unprincipled  avarice  ;  and  that  which  in 
other  men  arises  out  of  the  impulse  of  the  moment  is 
with  this  wretch  the  result  of  a  cold  and  unrelenting  cal- 
culation. You  entrust  him  with  your  wealth,  —  to  see  it 
is  to  covet  it,  and  with  him  to  desire  is  to  possess  him- 
self, without  the  smallest  scruple.  Totally  unheeding 
your  future  wretchedness,  the  grasping  deceiver  deprives 
you  of  your  property,  and  without  a  pang  consigns  you  to 
beggary  and  destitution.  Suppose  that,  by  a  long  course 
of  labour  and  privations,  you  have  contrived  to  amass  a 
provision  against  the  wants  and  infirmities  of  old  age ; 
well,  no  sooner  is  this  cold-blooded  hypocrite  made  the 
depositary  of  your  little  treasure,  than  he  unhesitatingly 
appropriates  it,  leaving  you  to  drag  on  a  miserable  exis- 
tence, without  a  morsel  of  bread  but  such  as  the  hand  of 
charity  doles  out  to  you.  Nor  is  this  all.  Let  us  con- 
sider the  fearful  consequences  of  these  infamous  acts  of 
spoliation.  Take  the  case  of  the  widow  of  whom  we 
were  speaking  just  now,  —  imagine  her  dying  of  grief 
and  a  crushed  spirit,  the  results  of  her  heavy  afflictions  ; 
she  leaves  a  young  and  helpless  girl  to  struggle  alone  in 
the  world,  —  a  weak  and  delicate  being,  whose  very  love- 
liness increases  her  dangers  and  difficulties.  Without 
friends  or  support,  unaccustomed  to  the  rough  realities 
of  life,  the  poor  orphan  has  but  to  choose  between  starva- 
tion and  dishonour.  In  an  evil  hour  she  falls,  and  becomes 
a  lost,  degraded  creature.  And  thus  Jacques  Ferrand, 
by  his  dishonest  appropriation  of  the  things  committed 
to  his  charge,  occasions  not  only  the  death  of  the  mother, 
but  the  dishonour  of  the  child  ;  he  destroys  the  body  of 
187 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


the  one  and  the  soul  of  the  other,  —  and  again,  I  say,  not 
with  the  merciful  despatch  of  the  assassin's  dagger,  but 
by  the  slow  tortures  of  lingering  cruelty  !  " 

Clemence  listened  in  profound  silence,  not  unmixed 
with  surprise,  at  hearing  Rodolph  express  himself  with 
so  much  indignation  and  bitterness.  Accustomed  only 
to  witness  the  most  urbane  suavity  in  the  tone  and  man- 
ner of  her  guest,  she  felt  more  than  ordinarily  struck  by 
his  vehement  and  excited  language ;  which,  however,  * 
seemed  to  show  his  intense  abhorrence  of  all  crooked 
and  nefarious  dealings. 

"  I  must  entreat  your  pardon,  madame,"  said  the  prince, 
after  a  pause,  "  for  having  permitted  myself  to  use  so 
much  warmth  in  the  presence  of  a  lady ;  but,  in  truth,  I 
could  not  restrain  my  indignation  when  I  reflected  on  all 
the  horrible  dangers  which  may  overwhelm  your  future 
protegees.  But,  be  assured,  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
exaggerate  those  fearful  consequences  brought  about  by 
ruin  and  misery." 

"  Indeed !  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  rather  merit  my 
thanks,  for  having  so  powerfully  and  energetically  aug- 
mented, if  possible,  the  tender  pity  I  feel  for  this  unfor- 
tunate parent,  whose  heart  is,  doubtless,  wrung  with 
anguish  rather  for  her  young  and  innocent  daughter 
than  for  herself.  It  is,  in  truth,  a  fearful  situation. 
But  we  shall  soon  be  enabled  to  relieve  her  mind,  and 
rescue  her  from  her  present  misery,  shall  we  not,  my 
lord?  Oh,  yes,  I  feel  assured  we  shall, —  and  hencefor- 
ward their  happiness  shall  be  my  care.  •  I  am  rich,  — 
though  not  so  much  so  as  I  could  wish,  now  that  I  per- 
ceive how  worthily  wealth  may  be  employed ;  but  should 
there  be  occasion  for  further  aid  than  I  am  enabled  to 
afford,  I  will  apply  to  M.  d'Harville  in  their  behalf.  I 
will  render  him  so  happy,  that  he  shall  find  it  impossible 
to  refuse  any  of  my  new  caprices,  and  I  foresee  that  I 
shall  have  plenty  of  them.  You  told  me,  did  you  not, 
my  lord,  that  our  protegees  are  proud  ?  So  much  the 
188 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


better.  I  am  better  pleased  to  find  them  so ;  for  pride 
under  unmerited  misfortune  always  betokens  a  great  and 
elevated  mind.  But  I  shall  be  able  to  overreach  them, 
for  I  will  so  contrive  that  they  shall  be  relieved  from 
their  present  misery  without  ever  guessing  to  what  chan- 
nel they  owe  their  deliverance  from  misery.  You  think 
I  shall  find  it  difficult  to  deceive  them  ?  So  much  the 
better.  Oh,  I  have  my  own  plans  of  action,  I  can  assure 
you,  my  lord ;  and  you  will  see  that  I  shall  be  deficient 
neither  in  cunning  nor  address." 

"  I  fully  anticipate  the  most  Machiavelian  system  of 
ruse  and  deep  combination,"  said  Rodolph,  smiling. 

"  But  we  must,  first  of  all,  discover  where  they  are. 
Oh,  how  I  wish  to-morrow  were  come !  When  I  leave 
Madame  de  Lucenay,  I  shall  go  directly  to  their  old  resi- 
dence, make  inquiries  of  their  late  neighbours,  collect  all 
the  information  I  can,  and  form  my  own  conclusions  from 
all  I  see  and  hear.  I  should  feel  so  proud  and  delighted 
to  work  out  all  the  good  I  intend  to  these  poor  ladies, 
without  being  assisted  by  any  person  ;  and  I  shall  accom- 
plish it,  —  I  feel  sure  I  shall.  This  adventure  affects  me 
greatly.  Poor  things !  I  seem  even  to  feel  a  livelier 
interest  in  their  misfortunes  when  I  think  of  my  own 
child." 

Deeply  touched  at  this  charitable  warmth,  Rodolph 
smiled  with  sincere  commiseration  at  seeing  a  young 
creature  of  scarcely  twenty  years  of  age,  seeking  to  lose, 
amid  occupations  so  pure  and  noble,  the  sense  of  the 
severe  domestic  afflictions  which  bore  so  heavily  upon 
her.  The  eyes  of  Cle'mence  sparkled  with  enthusiasm,  a 
delicate  carnation  tinged  her  pale  cheek,  while  the  ani- 
mation of  her  words  and  gestures  imparted  additional 
beauty  to  her  lovely  countenance. 

The  close  and  silent  scrutiny  of  Rodolph  did  not  escape 
the  notice  of  Madame  d'Harville.  She  blushed,  looked 
down  for  a  few  minutes,  then,  raising  her  eyes  in  sweet 
confusion,  said : 

•  189 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

"  I  see,  my  lord,  you  are  amused  at  my  girlish  eager- 
ness. But,  in  truth,  I  am  impatient  to  taste  those 
sources  of  delight  which  are  about  to  gild  an  existence 
hitherto  so  replete  with  grief  and  sadness,  and,  unfortu- 
nately, so  useless  to  every  one.  Alas,  this  was  not  the 
life  my  early  dreams  had  pictured  to  me,  —  the  one 
great  passion  of  life  I  must  for  ever  renounce !  Though 
young,  I  must  live,  and  act,  and  think,  as  though  scores 
of  years  had  passed  over  my  head.  Alas,  alas ! "  con- 
tinued Cle*mence,  with  a  sigh,  "  to  me  is  denied  the  dear 
domestic  joys  my  heart  could  so  fondly  have  prized." 
After  a  minute's  pause  she  resumed :  "  But  why  should 
I  dwell  on  such  vain  and  fruitless  regrets  ?  Thanks  to 
you,  my  lord,  charity  will  replace  the  void  left  in  my 
heart  by  disappointed  affection.  Already  have  I  owed 
to  your  counsels  the  enjoyment  of  the  most  touching 
emotions.  Your  words,  my  lord,  affect  me  deeply,  and 
exercise  unbounded  influence  over  me.  The  more  I 
meditate  on  what  you  have  advanced,  the  more  I  search 
into  its  real  depth  and  value,  the  more  I  am  struck  by 
its  vast  power  and  truth,  the  more  just  and  valuable 
does  it  appear  to  me.  Then,  when  I  reflect  that,  not 
satisfied  with  sympathising  with  sufferings  of  which  you 
can  form  no  idea  from  actual  experience,  you  aid  me 
with  the  most  salutary  counsels,  and  guide  me,  step  by 
step,  in  the  new  and  delightful  path  of  virtue  and  good- 
ness pointed  out  by  you  to  relieve  a  weary  and  worn-out 
heart,  oh,  my  lord,  what  treasure  of  all  that  is  good 
must  your  mind  contain !  From  what  source  have  you 
drawn  so  large  a  supply  of  tender  pity  for  the  woes 
of  all?" 

"  Nay,  the  secret  of  my  sincere  commiseration  with 
the  woes  of  others  consists  in  my  having  deeply  suffered 
myself,  —  nay,  in  still  sighing  over  heavy  sorrows  none 
can  alleviate  or  cure." 

"  You,  my  lord  !  Surely  you  cannot  have  tasted  thus 
bitterly  of  grief  and  misfortune  ?  " 

190 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


"  Yes,  'tis  even  so,  I  sometimes  think  that  I  have 
been  made  to  taste  of  nearly  every  bitter  which  fills  our 
cup  of  worldly  sorrows,  the  better  to  fit  me  for  sympa- 
thising with  all  descriptions  of  worldly  trials.  Wounded 
and  sorely  afflicted  as  a  friend,  a  husband,  and  a  parent, 
what  grief  can  there  be  in  which  I  am  not  qualified  to 
participate  ?  " 

"  I  always  understood,  my  lord,  that  your  late  wife, 
the  grand  duchess,  left  no  child  ? " 

"  True ;  but,  before  I  became  her  husband,  I  was  the 
father  of  a  daughter,  who  died  quite  young.  And,  how- 
ever you  may  smile  at  the  idea,  I  can  with  truth  assert 
that  the  loss  of  that  child  has  poisoned  all  my  subse- 
quent days.  And  this  grief  increases  with  my  years. 
Each  succeeding  hour  but  redoubles  the  poignancy  of  my 
regrets,  which,  far  from  abating,  appear  to  grow, — 
strengthen,  even  as  my  daughter  would  have  done  had 
she  been  spared  me.  She  would  now  have  been  in  her 
seventeenth  year." 

"  And  her  mother,"  asked  Cle*mence,  after  a  trifling 
hesitation,  "  is  she  still  living  ?  " 

"  Oh,  name  her  not,  I  beseech  you ! "  exclaimed 
Rodolph,  whose  features  became  suddenly  overcast  at 
this  reference  to  Sarah.  "  She  to  whom  you  allude  is  a 
vile,  unworthy  woman,  whose  feelings  are  completely 
buried  beneath  the  cold  selfishness  and  ambition  of  her 
nature.  Sometimes  I  even  ask  myself  whether  it  is  not 
better  that  my  child  has  been  removed  by  death  than 
for  her  to  have  been  contaminated  by  the  example  of 
such  a  mother." 

Cl^mence  could  not  restrain  a  feeling  of  satisfaction 
at  hearing  Rodolph  thus  express  himself.  "  In  that 
case,"  said  she,  "  I  can  imagine  how  doubly  you  must 
bewail  the  loss  of  your  only  object  of  affection  !  " 

"  Oh,  how  I  should  have  doted  on  my  child  !  For  it 
seems  to  me  that,  among  princes,  there  is  always  mixed 
up  with  the  affection  we  bear  a  son,  a  sort  of  interested 

191 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


regard  for  the  being  destined  to  perpetuate  our  race,  — 
a  kind  of  political  calculation.  But  a  daughter !  —  oh, 
she  is  loved  for  herself  alone  !  And  when,  alas !  one  is 
weary  of  witnessing  the  many  fearful  pictures  of  fallen 
humanity  an  intercourse  with  the  world  compels  us  to 
behold,  what  joy  to  turn  from  the  dark  pictures  of  guilt 
and  crime  to  refresh  ourselves  by  the  contemplation  of 
a  young  and  innocent  mind,  and  to  delight  in  watching 
the  unfolding  of  all  those  pure  and  tender  feelings  so 
guilelessly  true  to  nature !  The  proudest,  the  happiest 
mother  feels  not  half  the  exquisite  joy  of  a  father  in 
observing  the  gradual  development  of  a  daughter's  char- 
acter. A  mother  will  dwell  with  far  greater  rapture 
on  the  bold  and  manly  qualities  of  a  son.  For  have 
you  never  remarked  that  the  cause  which  still  further 
cements  the  doting  affection  of  a  mother  for  her  son, 
or  a  father  for  his  daughter,  is  the  feeling  of  either 
requiring  or  bestowing  aid  and  protection  ?  Thus,  the 
mother  looks  upon  her  son  in  the  light  of  a  future  sup- 
port and  protection ;  while  the  father  beholds  in  his 
young  and  helpless  daughter  a  weak  and  fragile  creature, 
clinging  to  him  for  safety,  counsel,  and  protection  from 
all  the  storms  of  life." 

"  True,  my  lord,  —  most  true  !  " 

"  But  what  avails  it  thus  to  dwell  on  sources  of 
delight  for  ever  lost  to  me  ? "  cried  Rodolph,  in  a 
voice  of  the  deepest  dejection.  His  mournful  tones 
sunk  into  the  very  heart  of  Cl^mence,  who  could  not 
restrain  a  tear,  which  trickled  slowly  down  her  cheek. 
After  a  short  pause,  during  which  the  prince,  making  a 
powerful  effort  to  restrain  himself,  and  feeling  almost 
ashamed  of  allowing  his  feelings  thus  to  get  the  better 
of  him  in  the  presence  of  Madame  d'Harville,  said,  with 
a  smile  of  infinite  sadness,  "  Your  pardon,  madame, 
for  thus  allowing  myself  to  be  drawn  away  by  the 
remembrance  of  my  past  griefs  !  " 

"  I  beseech  you,  my  lord,  make  no  apology  to  me ; 
192 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


but,  on  the  contrary,  believe  that  I  most  sincerely  sym- 
pathise with  your  very  natural  regrets.  Have  I  not  a 
right  to  share  your  griefs,  for  have  I  not  made  you 
a  participator  in  mine  ?  My  greatest  pain  is,  that  the 
only  consolation  I  could  offer  you  would  be  vain  and 
useless  to  assuage  your  grief." 

"  Not  so ;  the  very  expression  of  your  kind  com- 
miseration is  grateful  and  beneficial  to  me ;  and  I 
find  it  a  relief  to  disburden  my  mind,  and  tell  you 
all  I  suffer.  But,  courage  ! "  added  Rodolph,  with  a 
faint  and  melancholy  smile ;  "  the  conversation  of  this 
evening  entirely  reassures  me  on  your  account.  A  safe 
and  healthful  path  is  opened  to  you,  by  following  which 
you  will  escape  the  trials  and  dangers  so  fatal  to  many 
of  your  sex,  and,  still  more  so,  for  those  as  highly 
endowed  as  yourself.  You  will  have  much  to  endure, 
to  struggle  against,  and  contend  with  ;  but  in  propor- 
tion to  the  difficulties  of  your  position  will  be  your 
merit  in  overcoming  them.  You  are  too  young  and 
lovely  to  escape  without  a  severe  ordeal;  but,  should 
your  courage  ever  fail  you,  the  recollection,  not  only  of 
the  good  you  have  done,  but  also  that  you  propose  to 
effect,  will  serve  to  strengthen  your  virtuous  resolutions, 
and  arm  you  with  fresh  courage." 

Madame  d'Harville  melted  into  tears. 

"At  least,"  said  she,  "  promise  me  your  counsels  and 
advice  shall  never  fail  me.  May  I  depend  on  this,  my 
lord?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  you  may.  Whether  near  or  afar  off, 
believe  that  I  shall  ever  feel  the  most  lively  interest  in 
your  welfare  and  well-doing ;  and,  so  far  as  in  me  lies, 
will  I  devote  my  best  services  to  promote  your  happi- 
ness, or  that  of  the  man  whom  I  glory  in  calling  my 
dearest  friend." 

"  Thanks,  my  lord,"  said  Cle'mence,  drying  her  tears, 
"for  this  consoling  promise.  But  for  your  generous 
aid,  I  feel  too  well  that  my  own  strength  would  fail  me. 
193 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Still  I  bind  myself  now,  and  in  your  presence,  faithfully 
and  courageously  to  perform  my  duty,  however  hard  or 
painful  that  duty  may  be." 

As  Cle'mence  uttered  these  last  words,  a  small  door, 
concealed  by  the  hangings,  suddenly  opened ;  and  M. 
d'Harville,  pale,  agitated,  and  evidently  labouring  under 
considerable  excitement,  appeared  before  Madame  d'Har- 
ville and  Rodolph.  The  latter  involuntarily  started,  while 
a  faint  cry  escaped  the  lips  of  the  astonished  wife. 

The  first  surprise  over,  the  marquis  handed  to  Rodolph 
the  letter  received  from  Sarah,  saying  : 

"  Here,  my  lord,  is  the  letter  I  but  just  now  received 
in  your  presence.  Have  the  kindness  to  cast  your  eyes 
over  it,  and  afterwards  commit  it  to  the  flames." 

Cle'mence  gazed  on  her  husband  with  utter  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Most  infamous !  "  exclaimed  Rodolph,  indignantly, 
as  he  finished  the  perusal  of  the  vile  scrawl. 

"  Nay,  my  lord,  there  is  an  act  more  dastardly  even 
than  the  sending  an  anonymous  letter ;  and  that  act 
I  have  committed." 

"  For  the  love  of  heaven,  explain  yourself  ! " 

"  Instead  of  at  once  fearlessly  and  candidly  showing 
you  this  letter,  I  concealed  its  contents  from  you.  I 
feigned  calmness  and  tranquillity,  while  jealousy,  rage, 
and  despair  filled  my  heart.  Nor  is  this  all.  To  what 
detestable  meanness  do  you  suppose,  my  lord,  my  ungov- 
erned  passions  led  me  ?  Why,  to  enact  the  part  of  a  spy, 
—  to  hide  myself  basely  and  contemptibly  behind  this 
door,  to  overhear  your  conversation  and  espy  your  ac- 
tions. Yes,  hate  me,  despise  me  as  you  will,  I  merit  all 
for  having  insulted  you  by  a  suspicion.  Oh,  the  writer 
of  these  fiendish  letters  knew  well  the  culpable  weakness 
of  him  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  But,  after  all 
I  have  heard,  —  for  not  a  word  has  escaped  me,  and  1 
now  know  the  nature  of  the  interest  which  attracts  you 
to  frequent  the  Rue  du  Temple,  —  after  having,  by  my 
194 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER. 


mean  and  unworthy  jealousy,  given  support  to  the  base 
calumny  by  believing  it  even  for  an  instant,  how  can 
I  hope  for  pardon,  though  I  sue  for  it  upon  my  knees  ? 
Still,  still,  I  venture  to  implore  from  you,  so  superior  to 
myself  in  nobleness  and  generosity  of  soul,  pity,  and,  if 
you  can,  forgiveness  for  the  wrong  I  have  done  you ! " 

"  No  more  of  this,  my  dear  Albert,"  said  Rodolph, 
extending  his  hands  towards  his  friend  with  the  most 
touching  cordiality ;  "  you  have  nothing  to  ask  pardon 
for.  Indeed,  I  feel  quite  delighted  to  find  you  have  dis- 
covered the  secrets  of  Madame  d'Harville  and  myself. 
Now  that  all  further  restraint  is  at  an  end,  I  shall  be 
able  to  lecture  you  as  much  and  as  frequently  as  I  choose. 
But,  what  is  better  still,  you  are  now  installed  as  the 
confidant  of  Madame  d'Harville,  —  that  is  to  say,  you 
now  know  what  to  expect  from  a  heart  so  pure,  so 
generous,  and  so  noble  as  hers." 

"And  you,  Clemence,"  said  M.  d'Harville,  sorrowfully, 
to  his  wife,  "  can  you  forgive  me  my  last  unworthy  act, 
in  addition  to  the  just  causes  you  already  have  to  hate 
and  despise  me  ? " 

"  On  one  condition,"  said  she,  extending  her  hand 
towards  her  husband,  which  he  warmly  and  tenderly 
pressed,  "  that  you  promise  to  aid  me  in  all  my  schemes 
for  promoting  and  securing  your  happiness !  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear  marquis,"  exclaimed 
Rodolph,  "  our  enemies  have  shown  themselves  bun- 
glers after  all !  They  have  afforded  you  an  opportunity 
you  might  never  otherwise  have  obtained,  of  rightly 
appreciating  the  tender  devotion  of  your  incomparable 
wife,  whose  affection  for  you,  I  venture  to  say,  has 
shone  out  more  brightly  and  steadily  under  the  machi- 
nations of  those  who  seek  to  render  us  miserable,  than 
amidst  all  the  former  part  of  your  wedded  life ;  so  that 
we  are  enabled  to  take  a  sweet  revenge  for  the  mischief 
intended  to  be  effected :  that  is  some  consolation,  while 
awaiting  a  fuller  atonement  for  this  diabolical  attempt. 
195 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


I  strongly  suspect  the  quarter  from  which  this  scheme 
has  emanated ;  and  however  patiently  I  may  bear  my 
own  wrongs,  I  am  not  of  a  nature  to  suffer  those  offered 
to  my  friends  to  remain  unpunished.  This,  however,  is 
my  affair.  Adieu,  madame, — our  intrigue  is  discovered  ; 
and  you  will  be  no  more  at  liberty  to  work  alone  in 
befriending  your  protegees.  But,  never  mind  !  Before 
long  we  will  get  up  some  mysterious  enterprise,  impos- 
sible to  be  found  out ;  and  we  will  even  defy  the  mar- 
quis, with  all  his  penetration,  to  know  more  than  we 
choose  to  tell  him." 

After  accompanying  Rodolph  to  his  carriage  with 
reiterated  thanks  and  praises,  the  marquis  retired  to 
his  apartments  without  again  seeing  Cle'mence. 


196 


CHAPTER  VII. 


REFLECTIONS. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  tumultuous  and 
opposing  sentiments  that  agitated  M.  d'Harville  when 
alone.  He  reflected  with  delight  on  the  detection  of 
the  unworthy  falsehood  charged  upon  Rodolph  and 
Cle'nience ;  but  he  was,  at  the  same  time,  thoroughly 
convinced  that  he  must  for  ever  forego  the  hope  of  being 
loved  by  her.  The  more  Cle'mence  had  proved  herself, 
in  her  conversation  with  Rodolph,  resigned,  full  of  cour- 
age, and  bent  on  acting  rightly,  the  more  bitterly  did 
M.  d'Harville  reproach  himself  for  having,  in  his  culpable 
egotism,  chained  the  lot  of  his  unhappy  young  wife  to 
his  own.  Far  from  being  consoled  by  the  conversation 
he  had  overheard,  he  fell  into  a  train  of  sorrowful 
thought  and  indescribable  anguish. 

Riches,  without  occupation,  bring  with  them  this 
wretchedness.  Nothing  can  divert  it,  nothing  relieve  it, 
from  the  deepest  feelings  of  mental  torture.  Not  being 
compulsorily  preoccupied  by  cares  for  the  future  or  daily 
toil,  it  is  utterly  exposed  to  heavy  moral  affliction.  Able 
to  acquire  all  that  money  can  purchase,  it  desires  or 
regrets  with  intense  violence  — 

"  What  gold  could  never  buy." 

The  mental  torture  of  M.  d'Harville  was  intense,  for, 
after  all,  what  he  desired  was  only  what  was  just,  and 
actually  legal,  —  the  society,  if  not  the  love,  of  his  wife. 

But,  wnen  placed  beside  the  inexorable  refusal  of 
197 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Cle'mence,  he  asked  himself  if  there  was  not  the  bit- 
terest derision  in  these  words  of  the  law  :  The  wife 
belongs  to  her  husband. 

To  what  influence,  to  what  means  could  he  have 
recourse  to  subdue  this  coldness,  this  repugnance,  which 
turned  his  whole  existence  into  one  long  punishment, 
since  he  could  not  —  ought  not  —  would  not  love  any 
woman  but  his  wife  ? 

He  could  not  but  see  in  this,  as  in  many  other  posi- 
tions of  conjugal  life,  the  simple  will  of  the  husband  or 
the  wife  imperatively  substituted,  without  appeal  or  possi- 
bility of  prevention,  for  the  sovereign  will  of  the  law. 

To  the  paroxysms  of  vain  anger  there  succeeded  a 
melancholy  depression.  The  future  weighed  him  down, 
heavy,  dull,  and  chill.  He  only  saw  before  him  the 
grief  that  would  doubtless  render  more  frequent  the 
attacks  of  his  fearful  malady. 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  at  once  in  tears  and  despair, 
"  it  is  my  fault,  —  it  is  my  fault !  Poor,  unhappy  girl ! 
I  deceived  her,  —  shamefully  deceived  her !  She  must, 
—  she  ought  to  hate  me ;  and  yet  but  now  she  displayed 
the  deepest  interest  in  me,  and,  instead  of  contenting 
myself  with  that,  my  mad  passion  led  me  away,  and  I 
became  tender.  I  spoke  of  my  love,  and  scarcely  had 
my  lips  touched  her  hand  than  she  became  startled,  and 
bounded  with  fright.  If  I  could  for  a  moment  have 
doubted  the  invincible  repugnance  with  which  I  inspire 
her,  what  she  said  to  the  prince  must  for  ever  destroy 
that  illusion.  Ah,  it  is  frightful,  —  frightful!  By  what 
right  has  she  confided  to  him  this  hideous  secret  ?  It  is 
an  unworthy  betrayal!  By  what  right?  —  alas,  by  the 
right  the  victim  has  to  complain  of  its  executioner !  Poor 
girl !  So  young,  —  so  loving !  All  she  could  find  most 
cruel  to  say  against  the  horrid  existence  I  have  entailed 
upon  her  was,  that  such  was  not  the  lot  of  which  she  had 
dreamed,  and  that  she  was  very  young  to  renounce  all 
hopes  of  love !  I  know  Cl^mence,  and  the  word  she 
198 


REFLECTIONS. 


gave  me,  —  the  word  she  gave  to  the  prince,  —  she  will 
abide  by  for  ever.  She  will  be  to  me  the  tenderest  of 
sisters !  Well,  is  not  my  position  still  most  enviable  ? 
To  the  cold  and  constrained  demeanour  which  existed 
between  us  will  succeed  affectionate  and  gentle  inter- 
course, whilst  she  might  have  treated  me  always  with 
icy  disdain  of  which  it  was  impossible  that  I  could  com- 
plain. So,  then,  I  will  console  myself  by  the  enjoyment 
of  what  she  offers  to  me.  Shall  I  not  be  too  happy 
then  ? — too  happy  ?  Ah,  how  weak  I  am  !  How  cowardly ! 
Is  she  not  my  wife,  after  all  ?  Is  she  not  mine  and  mine 
only  ?  Does  not  the  law  recognise  my  right  over  her  ? 
My  wife  refuses,  but  is  not  the  right  on  my  side  ?  "  he 
interrupted  himself,  with  a  burst  of  sardonic  laughter. 

"Oh,  yes, — be  violent,  eh?  What,  another  infamy? 
But  what  can  I  do?  For  I  love  her  yet,  —  love  her  to 
madness !  I  love  her  and  her  only !  I  want  but  her,  — 
her  love,  and  not  the  lukewarm  regard  of  a  sister.  Ah, 
at  last  she  must  have  pity ;  she  is  so  kind,  and  she  will 
see  how  unhappy  I  am  !  But  no,  no  !  Never !  Mine 
is  a  case  of  estrangement  which  a  woman  never  can 
surmount.  Disgust,  —  yes,  disgust,  —  I  cannot  but 
see  it,  —  disgust !  I  must  convince  myself  that  it  is  my 
horrid  infirmity  that  frightens  her,  and  always  must,  — 
always  must!"  exclaimed  M.  d'Harville,  in  his  fearful 
excitement. 

After  a  moment  of  gloomy  silence,  he  continued  : 
"  This  anonymous  attack,  which  accused  the  prince  and 
my  wife,  comes  from  the  hand  of  an  enemy ;  and  yet, 
but  an  hour  ago,  before  I  saw  through  it,  I  suspected  him. 
Him !  —  to  believe  him  capable  of  such  base  treachery  ! 
And  my  wife,  too,  I  included  in  the  same  suspicion  !  Ah, 
jealousy  is  incurable  !  And  yet  I  must  not  abuse  myself. 
If  the  prince,  who  loves  me  as  his  best  and  dearest  friend, 
has  made  Clemence  promise  to  occupy  her  mind  and 
heart  in  charitable  works,  if  he  promises  her  his  advice, 
his  support,  it  is  because  she  requires  advice,  needs  sup- 
199 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


port.  And,  indeed,  lovely  and  young,  and  surrounded 
as  she  is,  and  without  that  love  in  her  heart  which  pro- 
tects and  even  almost  excuses  her  wrongs  through  mine, 
which  are  so  atrocious,  must  she  not  fall  ?  Another 
torturing  thought !  What  I  have  suffered  when  I 
thought  her  guilty,  —  fallen,  —  Heaven  knows  what 
agony !  But,  no ;  the  fear  is  vain !  Clemence  has 
sworn  never  to  fail  in  her  duties,  and  she  will  keep  her 
promise,  —  strictly  keep  it !  But  at  what  a  price  !  At 
what  a  price  !  But  now,  when  she  turned  towards  me 
with  affectionate  language,  what  agony  did  I  feel  at  the 
sight  of  her  gentle,  sad,  and  resigned  smile !  How  much 
this  return  to  me  must  have  cost !  Poor  love  !  how  lovely 
and  affecting  she  seemed  at  that  moment !  For  the  first 
time  I  felt  a  fierce  remorse,  for,  up  to  that  moment, 
her  haughty  coldness  had  sufficiently  avenged  her.  Oh, 
wretch !  —  wretch  that  I  am  !  " 

After  a  long  and  sleepless  night,  spent  in  bitter  re- 
flections, the  agitation  of  M.  d'Harville  ceased,  as  if  by 
enchantment.  He  had  come  to  an  unalterable  resolution. 
He  awaited  daybreak  with  excessive  impatience. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  rang  for  his  valet  de  chambre. 

When  old  Joseph  entered  his  master's  room,  to  his 
great  surprise  he  heard  him  hum  a  hunting  song,  —  a 
sign,  as  rare  as  certain,  that  M.  d'Harville  was  in  good 
humour. 

"  Ah,  M.  le  Marquis,"  said  the  faithful  old  servant, 
quite  affected,  "  what  a  charming  voice  you  have ! 
What  a  pity  that  you  do  not  sing  more  frequently ! " 

"  Really,  Joseph,  have  I  a  charming  voice  ? "  said  M. 
d'Harville,  smiling. 

"If  M.  le  Marquis  had  a  voice  as  hoarse  as  a  night 
raven  or  as  harsh  as  a  rattle,  I  should  still  think  he  had 
a  charming  voice." 

"  Be  silent,  you  flatterer !  " 

200 


REFLECTIONS. 


"  Why,  when  you  sing,  M.  le  Marquis,  it  is  a  sign  you 
are  happy,  and  then  your  voice  sounds  to  rue  the  most 
beautiful  music  in  the  world." 

"  In  that  case,  Joseph,  my  old  friend,  prepare  to  open 
your  long  ears." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  " 

"  You  may  enjoy  every  day  the  music  which  you  call 
charming,  and  of  which  you  seem  so  fond." 

"What!  You  will  be  happy  every  day,  M.  le  Mar- 
quis ? "  exclaimed  Joseph,  clasping  his  hands  with 
extreme  delight. 

"  Every  day,  my  old  Joseph,  happy  every  day.  Yes, 
no  more  sorrow,  —  no  more  sadness.  I  can  tell  you, 
the  only  and  discreet  confidant  of  my  troubles,  that  I 
am  at  the  height  of  happiness.  My  wife  is  an  angel  of 
goodness,  and  has  asked  my  forgiveness  for  her  past 
estrangement,  attributing  it  (can  ycu  imagine  ?)  to 
jealousy." 

"  To  jealousy  ?  " 

"Yes,  absurd  suspicions,  excited  by  anonymous 
letters." 

"How  shameful!" 

"  You  understand  ?    Women  have  so  much  self-love, 

—  a  little  more  and  we  should  have  been  separated  ; 
but,  fortunately,  last  evening  she  explained  all  frankly 
to  me,  and  I  disabused  her  mind.  To  tell  you  her 
extreme  delight  would  be  impossible,  for  she  loves  me, 

—  oh,  yes,  she  loves  me !  The  coldness  she  evinced 
towards  me  lay  as  cruelly  on  herself  as  on  me,  and 
now,  at  length,  our  distressing  separation  has  ended. 
Only  conceive  my  delight ! " 

"  Can  it  be  true  ? "  cried  Joseph,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes.  "  Can  it  really  be  true,  M.  le  Marquis  ?  And 
now  your  life  will  be  happy,  for  it  was  only  my  lady's 
love  that  you  required,  or,  rather,  since  her  estrange- 
ment was  your  sole  misery,  as  you  told  me." 

"  And  to  whom  but  you  should  I  have  told  it,  my 
201 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


worthy  old  Joseph  ?  Do  not  you  possess,  also,  a  still 
sadder  secret  ?  But  do  not  let  us  say  anything  more 
of  sorrows  now,  —  it  is  too  bright  a  time.  You  see, 
perhaps,  that  I  have  been  weeping  ?  It  is  because  this 
happiness  has  come  over  me  so  suddenly,  when  I  so  little 
anticipated  it !    How  weak  I  am  !  —  am  I  not  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  M.  le  Marquis,  you  may  weep  for  joy 
as  much  as  you  please,  for  you  have  wept  long  enough 
for  pain ;  and  now  see,  do  not  I  do  as  you  do  ?  They 
are  right  sort  of  tears,  and  I  would  not  give  them  for  ten 
years  more  of  life.  I  have  now  but  one  fear,  and  that  is, 
not  to  be  able  to  prevent  myself  from  falling  at  the  feet 
of  Madame  la  Marquise  the  first  time  I  see  her." 

"  Silly  old  fellow  !  Why  you  are  as  weak  as  your 
master.    And  now  I  have  but  one  fear." 

«  And  what  is  that  ?  " 

"  That  this  will  not  last ;  I  am  too  happy.  What  now 
is  wanting  tome?" 

"  Nothing,  —  nothing,  M.  le  Marquis,  —  absolutely 
nothing." 

"  That  is  why  I  mistrust  such  perfect  happiness,  —  too 
complete." 

"  Alas  !  If  that  is  all,  why,  M.  le  Marquis  —  But 
no,  I  dare  not." 

"  I  understand  you.  Well,  I  believe  your  fears  are 
vain.  The  change  which  my  happiness  causes  me  is  so 
intense,  so  complete,  that  I  am  almost  sure  of  being 
nearly  cured." 

«  How  ? " 

"  My  doctor  has  told  me  a  hundred  times  that  a 
violent  emotion  is  frequently  sufficient  either  to  bring  on 
or  to  cure  this  terrible  malady." 

"  You  are  right,  monsieur,  —  you  are  cured,  and  what 
a  blessing  that  is  !  Ah,  as  you  say,  M.  le  Marquis, 
the  marquise  is  a  good  angel  come  down  from  heaven ; 
and  I  begin  myself  to  be  almost  alarmed  lest  the  happi- 
ness is  too  great ;  but  now  I  think  of  it,  if  you  only  want 
202 


REFLECTIONS. 


a  small  matter  just  to  annoy  you,  thank  God,  I  have  just 
the  very  thing !  " 
"  What  is  it  ? " 

"  One  of  your  friends  has  very  luckily  had  a  sword- 
wound,  very  slight,  to  be  sure ;  but  that's  all  the  same, 
it  is  quite  enough  for  you,  as  you  desire  to  make  a  small 
black  spot  in  your  too  happy  day." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  and  of  whom  do  you  speak  ?" 

"  The  Duke  de  Lucenay." 

"  Is  he  wounded  ?  " 

"  A  scratch  in  the  arm.  M.  the  Duke  came  yesterday 
to  call  on  you,  sir,  and  told  me  he  should  come  again 
this  morning,  and  invite  himself  to  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  Poor  Lucenay !  And  why  did  you  not  tell  me 
this?" 

"  I  could  not  see  you  last  night,  M.  le  Marquis." 

After  a  moment's  reflection,  M.  d'Harville  resumed : 

"  You  are  right,  this  slight  regret  will,  doubtless,  sat- 
isfy jealous  Fate.  But  an  idea  has  come  across  me ;  I 
should  like  to  get  up  a  bachelors'  breakfast  this  morn- 
ing of  all  the  friends  of  M.  de  Lucenay,  to  celebrate  the 
fortunate  result  of  his  duel ;  not  anticipating  such  a 
meeting,  he  will  be  delighted." 

"  A  capital  idea,  M.  le  Marquis.  Vive  la  joie  !  Let 
us  make  up  for  lost  time.  For  how  many  shall  I 
desire  the  maitre  d'hdtel  to  lay  covers  ? " 

"  For  six,  in  the  small  winter  dining-room." 

"  And  the  invitations  ? " 

"  I  will  write  them.  Let  a  groom  get  his  horse  ready, 
and  take  them  instantly.  It  is  very  early,  and  he  will 
find  everybody  at  home.  Ring." 

Joseph  rang  the  bell. 

M.  d'Harville  entered  into  his  cabinet,  and  wrote  the 
following  letter,  with  no  other  alteration  than  the  name 
of  each  invited  guest. 

"  My  dear  :  This  is  a  circular,  and  is  also  an  impromptu. 

Lucenay  is  coming  to  breakfast  with  me  this  morning,  expecting 
203 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


only  a  tete-a-tete.  Will  you  join  me  and  several  friends,  whom  I 
also  invite,  in  giving  him  an  agreeable  surprise  ? 

"  Twelve  punctually.  "  M.  d'Harville." 

A  servant  entered.  , 
"Desire  some  one  to  get  on  horseback,  and  deliver 
these  notes  directly,"  said  M.  d'Harville;  and  then, 
addressing  Joseph,  "  Write  the  addresses :  M.  le 
Vicomte  de  Saint-Remy,  —  Lucenay  cannot  get  on  with- 
out him,"  said  M.  d'Harville  to  himself ;  "  M.  de 
Monville,  one  of  the  duke's  travelling  companions ;  Lord 
Douglas,  his  beloved  partner  at  whist ;  the  Baron  de 
Se'zannes,  one  of  the  friends  of  his  childhood.  Have  you 
done?" 

"  Yes,  M.  le  Marquis." 

"  Send  them  off,  then,  without  losing  a  minute's  time," 
said  M.  d'Harville. 

"  Ah,  Philippe,  request  M.  Doublet  to  come  and  speak 
to  me." 

Philippe  left  the  room. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  inquired  M. 
d'Harville  of  Joseph,  who  looked  at  him  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"  I  cannot  get  over  it,  sir ;  I  never  saw  you  in  such 
spirits,  —  so  lively  ;  and  then  you,  who  are  usually  so 
pale,  have  got  such  a  colour,  and  your  eyes  sparkle." 

"  Happiness,  my  old  friend,  —  happiness,  and  noth- 
ing else ;  and  you  must  assist  me  in  my  little  plot. 
You  must  go  and  learn  of  Mile.  Juliette,  Madame 
d'Harville's  waiting-woman,  who  has  the  care  of  her 
diamonds." 

"  Yes,  M.  le  Marquis,  it  is  Mile.  Juliette  who  has  the 
charge  of  them,  for  it  is  not  eight  days  since  I  helped  her 
to  clean  them." 

"  Ask  her  to  tell  you  the  name  of  her  lady's  jeweller, 
but  not  to  say  a  word  on  the  subject  to  her  mistress." 

"  Ah,  I  understand,  —  a  surprise." 

"  Go  as  quickly  as  possible.    Here  is  M.  Doublet." 
201 


REFLECTIONS. 


And  the  steward  entered  as  Joseph  quitted  the 
apartment. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  attend  the  orders  of  M.  le 
Marquis." 

"  My  dear  M.  Doublet,  I  am  going  to  alarm  you,"  said 
M.  d'Harville,  smiling ;  "  I  shall  compel  you  to  utter 
fearful  cries  of  distress." 

«  Me,  sir  ?  " 

"  You." 

"  I  will  endeavour  to  give  satisfaction  to  M.  le 
Marquis." 

"  I  am  going  to  spend  an  enormous  sum,  M.  Doublet." 
"  Why  not,  M.  le  Marquis  ?    We  are  well  able  to  do 
so." 

"  I  have  been  planning  a  considerable  extent  of  build- 
ing. I  propose  to  annex  a  gallery  in  the  garden,  on  the 
right  wing  of  the  hotel.  After  having  hesitated  at  this 
folly,  of  which  I  have  not  before  spoken  to  you,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  on  the  point,  and  I  wish  you  to  send 
to-day  to  my  architect,  desiring  him  to  come  and  talk 
over  the  plans  with  me.  Well,  M.  Doublet,  you  do  not 
seem  to  object  to  the  outlay." 

"  I  can  assure  your  lordship  that  I  have  no  objection 
whatsoever." 

"  This  gallery  is  destined  for  f§tes,  and  I  wish  to  have 
it  erected  as  though  by  enchantment ;  and,  as  enchant- 
ments are  very  dear,  we  must  sell  fifteen  or  twenty 
thousand  livres  of  income  in  order  to  meet  the  expendi- 
ture, for  I  wish  the  work  to  be  begun  as  speedily  as 
possible." 

"  I  have  always  said  there  is  nothing  which  M.  le 
Marquis  wants,  unless  it  be  a  certain  taste.  That  for 
building  has  the  advantage  of  having  the  buildings 
always  left;  as  to  money,  M.  le  Marquis  need  not 
alarm  himself,  and  he  may,  if  he  pleases,  build  the 
gallery." 

Joseph  returned. 

205 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Here,  M.  le  Marquis,  is  the  address  of  the  jeweller, 
whose  name  is  M.  Baudoin,"  said  he  to  M.  d'Harville. 

"  My  dear  M.  Doublet,  will  you  go  to  this  jeweller's, 
and  desire  him  to  bring  here  in  an  hour  a  river  of  dia- 
monds, worth,  say,  two  thousand  louis  ?  Women  never 
have  too  many  jewels,  now  they  wear  gowns  decorated 
with  them.  You  can  arrange  with  the  jeweller  as  to  the 
payment." 

"  Yes,  M.  le  Marquis ;  and  I  do  not  even  yet  begin  to 
groan.  Diamonds  are  like  buildings,  —  they  remain. 
And  then,  no  doubt,  the  surprise  will  greatly  please 
Madame  la  Marquise,  without  counting  the  pleasure 
that  you  yourself  will  experience.  It  is  as  I  had  the 
honour  of  saying  the  other  day,  there  is  not  in  the  world 
any  person  whose  existence  can  be  more  delightful  than 
that  of  M.  le  Marquis." 

"  My  dear  M.  Doublet,"  said  M.  d'Harville,  with  a 
smile,  "  your  congratulations  are  always  so  peculiarly 
apropos." 

"  That  is  their  only  merit,  M.  le  Marquis ;  and  they 
possess  that  merit,  perhaps,  because  they  proceed  from 
the  heart.    I  will  run  to  the  jeweller." 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone,  M.  d'Harville  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  his  cabinet,  with  his  arms  folded,  and  his 
eye  fixed  and  meditative.  His  features  suddenly  changed, 
and  no  longer  expressed  that  somewhat  feverish  content- 
ment of  which  the  steward  and  his  old  servant  had  been 
the  dupes,  but  assumed  a  calm,  sad,  and  chilling  resolu- 
tion. Afterwards,  having  paced  up  and  down  for  a  short 
time,  he  sunk  into  a  chair  heavily,  and,  as  though  weighed 
down  with  sorrow,  placed  his  elbows  on  his  desk,  and  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands.  After  a  moment  he  rose  suddenly, 
wiped  a  tear  which  moistened  his  red  eyelid,  and  said 
with  effort : 

"  Come,  come  !    Courage,  courage  !  " 

He  then  wrote  to  several  persons  on  very  trifling  mat- 
ters, and  postponed  various  meetings  for  some  days.  The 
206 


REFLECTIONS. 


marquis  had  concluded  this  correspondence  when  Joseph 
again  entered,  so  gay,  and  so  forgetful  of  himself,  as  to 
hum  a  tune  in  his  turn. 

"  M.  Joseph,  what  a  charming  voice  you  have  !  "  said 
his  master,  jestingly. 

"  Ma  foi !  so  much  the  worse,  M.  le  Marquis,  for  I 
don't  care  about  it.  I  am  singing  so  merrily  within, 
that  my  music  must  be  heard  without." 

"  Send  these  letters  to  the  post." 

"  Yes,  M.  le  Marquis ;  but  where  will  you  receive  the 
gentlemen  who  are  expected  this  morning  ? " 

"  Here,  in  my  cabinet ;  they  will  smoke  after  break- 
fast, and  then  the  smell  of  the  tobacco  will  not  reach 
Madame  d'Harville." 

At  this  moment  the  noise  of  carriage  wheels  was  heard 
in  the  courtyard  of  the  hStel. 

"  It  is  Madame  la  Marquise  going  out ;  she  ordered 
her  carriage  very  early  this  morning,"  said  Joseph. 

"  Eun  and  request  her  to  be  so  kind  and  come  here 
before  she  goes  out." 

"  Yes,  M.  le  Marquis." 

The  domestic  had  scarcely  left  the  room  when  M. 
d'Harville  approached  a  mirror,  and  looked  at  himself 
attentively. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "  it  is  there, 
—  the  flushed  cheeks  —  the  bright  look  —  joy  or  fever, 
it  is  little  consequence  which,  so  that  they  are  deceived  ; 
now,  then,  for  the  smile  on  the  lips,  —  there  are  so  many 
sorts  of  smiles !  But  who  can  distinguish  the  false  from 
the  true  ?  Who  can  peep  beneath  the  false  mask,  and 
say,  '  That  laugh  hides  a  dark  despair,  that  noisy  gaiety 
conceals  a  thought  of  death  ? '  Who  could  guess  that  ? 
No  one,  —  fortunately,  no  one,  — no  one  !  Ah,  yes,  love 
would  never  be  mistaken ;  his  instinct  would  enlighten 
him.  But  I  hear  my  wife,  —  my  wife !  Now,  then, 
sinister  actor,  play  thy  part." 

Clemence  entered  M.  d'Harville's  apartment. 
207 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Good  morrow,  dear  brother  Albert,"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  full  of  sweetness.  Then,  observing  the  smiling 
expression  of  her  husband's  countenance,  "  But  what  is 
it,  my  dear,  that  gives  you  such  a  smiling  air  ?  " 

"  It  was  because,  when  you  entered,  my  dear  sister,  I 
was  thinking  of  you,  and,  moreover,  I  was  under  the 
influence  of  an  excellent  resolution." 

"  That  does  not  surprise  me." 

"  What  took  place  yesterday,  —  your  extreme  gener- 
osity, the  prince's  noble  conduct,  —  has  given  me  much 
food  for  reflection,  and  I  am  converted,  —  entirely  con- 
verted to  your  ideas." 

"  Indeed !  That  is  a  happy  change ! "  exclaimed 
Madame  d'Harville.  "  Ah !  I  was  sure  that,  when  I 
appealed  to  your  heart,  to  your  reason,  you  would 
understand  me ;  and  now  I  have  no  doubt  about  the 
future." 

"  Nor  I  either,  C16mence,  I  assure  you.  Yes,  since 
my  resolution  last  night,  the  future,  which  seemed  so 
vague  and  sombre,  is  singularly  brightened  and  simpli- 
fied." 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  natural,  my  dear.  Now  we 
both  go  towards  the  same  end,  like  a  brother  and  sister, 
mutually  dependent  on  each  other ;  at  the  end  of  our 
career  we  shall  find  each  other  what  we  are  to-day. 
The  feeling  will  be  unalterable.  In  a  word,  I  wish 
you  to  be  happy ;  and  you  shall  be,  for  I  have  resolved 
it  there,"  said  Cle'rnence,  placing  her  finger  on  her  fore- 
head. Then  she  added,  with  charming  emphasis,  lower- 
ing her  hand  to  her  heart,  "  No,  I  mistake,  it  is  here. 
That  is  the  good  thought  that  will  watch  over  you  inces- 
santly, and  myself  also ;  and  you  shall  see,  my  brother, 
in  what  the  obstinacy  of  a  devoted  heart  consists." 

"  Dear  Clemence  ! "  said  M.  d'Harville  with  repressed 
emotion ;  then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  he  continued, 
in  a  gay  tone  : 

"  I  sent  to  beg  you  to  come  here  before  you  went  out, 
208 


REFLECTIONS. 


to  tell  you  that  I  could  not  take  tea  with  you  this  morn- 
ing. I  have  some  friends  to  breakfast,  —  a  sort  of 
impromptu, — to  celebrate  the  fortunate  result  of  a  duel 
of  poor  Lucenay,  who,  by  the  way,  was  only  very  slightly 
wounded  by  his  adversary." 

Madame  d'Harville  blushed  when  she  reflected  on  the 
origin  of  this  duel,  —  an  absurd  remark  addressed  in  her 
presence  by  the  Duke  de  Lucenay  to  M.  Charles  Robert. 
It  reminded  her  of  an  erreur  of  which  she  was  ashamed, 
and,  to  escape  from  the  pain  she  felt,  she  said  to  her 
husband : 

"  What  a  singular  chance !  M.  de  Lucenay  is  coming 
to  breakfast  with  you,  and  I  am  going,  perhaps  rather 
indiscreetly,  to  invite  myself  this  morning  to  Madame 
de  Lucenay's ;  for  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  her 
about  my  two  unknowns.  From  her,  it  is  my  intention 
to  go  to  the  prison  of  St.  Lazare  with  Madame  de 
Blinval,  for  you  do  not  know  all  my  projects ;  at  this 
time  I  am  intriguing  to  get  admittance  into  the  work- 
room of  the  young  prisoner-girls." 

"  You  are  really  insatiable,"  said  M.  d'Harville,  with 
a  smile ;  and  then  he  added,  with  a  painful  emotion, 
which,  despite  his  efforts,  betrayed  itself  a  little,  "  Then 
I  shall  see  you  no  more  to  day." 

"Does  it  annoy  you  that  I  should  go  out  so  early?" 
asked  C16mence,  quickly,  astonished  at  the  tone  of  his 
voice.  "  If  you  wish  it,  I  can  put  off  my  visit  to 
Madame  de  Lucenay." 

The  Marquis  had  nearly  betrayed  himself,  but  contin- 
ued, in  an  affectionate  tone : 

"  Yes,  my  dear  little  sister,  I  am  as  annoyed  to  see 
you  go  out,  as  I  shall  be  impatient  to  see  you  return, 
and  these  are  faults  of  which  I  shall  never  be  cor- 
rected." 

"  And  you  are  quite  right,  dear  ;  for  if  you  did  I 
should  be  very,  very  sorry." 

The  sound  of  a  bell,  announcing  a  visit,  was  now  heard. 

209 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 

"  Here  is  one  of  your  guests,  no  doubt,"  said  Madame 
d'Harville.  "  I  leave  you  ;  but,  by  the  way,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  in  the  evening  ?  If  you  have  no  better 
engagement,  I  require  you  to  accompany  me  to  the 
Italian  Opera ;  perhaps  now  you  will  like  the  music 
better." 

"  I  am  at  your  orders  with  the  utmost  pleasure." 

"  Are  you  going  out  by  and  by  ?  Shall  I  see  you 
before  dinner  ? " 

"  I  shall  not  go  out ;  you  will  find  me  here." 

"  Well,  then,  on  my  return,  I  shall  come  and  inquire 
if  your  bachelors'  breakfast  has  been  amusing." 

"  Adieu,  Cle'mence  !  " 

"  Adieu,  dear  !  We  shall  soon  meet  again.  I  leave 
you  a  clear  house,  and  wish  you  may  be  as  merry  as 
possible.    Be  very  gay  and  lively,  mind." 

Having  cordially  shaken  her  husband's  hand, 
Clemence  went  out  of  one  door  as  M.  de  Lucenay 
entered  by  another. 

"  She  wished  me  to  be  as  merry  as  possible,  and  bade 
me  be  gay !  In  the  word  adieu,  in  that  last  cry  of  my 
soul  in  its  agony,  in  that  word  of  complete  and  eternal 
separation,  she  has  understood  that  we  should  meet 
again  soon,  —  this  evening,  —  and  leaves  me  tranquilly, 
and  with  a  smile !  It  does  honour  to  my  dissimulation. 
By  heaven,  I  did  not  think  that  I  was  so  good  an  actor  ! 
But  here  is  Lucenay." 


210 


CHAPTER  Yin. 


THE  BACHELOES'  BREAKFAST. 

M.  de  Lucenat  came  into  the  room. 

The  duke's  wound  had  been  so  slight,  that  he  did  not 
even  carry  his  arm  in  a  sling.  His  countenance  was,  as 
usual,  mirthful,  yet  proud ;  his  motion  perpetual ;  and 
his  restlessness,  as  usual,  unconquerable.  In  spite  of 
his  awkwardness,  his  ill-timed  pleasantries,  and  in  spite 
of  his  immense  nose,  which  gave  his  face  a  grotesque 
and  odd  character,  M.  de  Lucenay  was  not,  as  we  have 
already  said,  a  vulgar  person,  thanks  to  a  kind  of  natu- 
ral dignity  and  bold  impertinence,  which  never  forsook 
him. 

"  How  indifferent  you  must  think  me  to  what  con- 
cerns you,  my  dear  Henry !  "  said  M.  d'Harville,  extend- 
ing his  hand  to  M.  de  Lucenay ;  "  but  it  was  only  this 
morning  that  I  heard  of  your  unfortunate  adventure." 

"Unfortunate!  Pooh  —  pooh,  marquis!  I  had  my 
money's  worth,  as  they  say.  I  really  never  laughed  so 
in  my  life.  The  worthy  M.  Robert  was  so  religiously 
determined  to  maintain  that  he  never  had  a  phlegmy 
cough,  in  all  his  life,  —  but  you  do  not  know  !    This  was 

the  cause  of  the  duel.    The  other  evening  at  the  

embassy,  I  asked  him,  before  your  wife  and  the  Countess 
Macgregor,  how  his  phlegmy  cough  was  ?  Inde  irce  !  for, 
between  ourselves,  he  had  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  but  it 
was  all  the  same,  and,  you  may  suppose,  to  have  such 
a  thing  alluded  to  before  pretty  women  was  very  pro- 
voking." 

211 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

• 

"  How  foolish  !  Yet  it  is  so  like  you !  But  who  is 
this  M.  Robert?" 

"  Ma  foil  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  in  the  world. 
He  is  a  person  whom  I  met  at  the  Spas  ;  he  passed  by 
us  in  the  winter  garden  at  the  embassy,  and  I  called  to 
him  to  play  off  this  foolish  jest,  to  which  he  gallantly 
replied  the  next  day  by  giving  me  a  touch  with  his 
sword-point.  This  is  the  history  of  our  acquaintance. 
But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  such  follies.  I  have  come 
to  ask  you  for  a  cup  of  tea." 

So  saying,  M.  de  Lucenay  flung  himself  down  full 
length  on  the  sofa ;  after  which,  poking  the  point  of  his 
cane  between  the  wall  and  the  frame  of  a  picture  hang- 
ing over  his  head,  he  began  to  move  it  about,  and  try 
and  balance  the  frame. 

"  I  expected  you,  my  dear  Henry ;  and  I  have  got  up 
a  surprise  for  you,"  said  M.  d'Harville. 

"  Ah,  bah !  and  in  what  way  ? "  exclaimed  M.  de 
Lucenay,  giving  to  the  picture  a  very  doubtful  kind  of 
balance. 

"  You  will  unquestionably  unhook  that  picture,  and 
let  it  down  on  your  head." 

"  Pardieu  !  I  believe  you  are  right.  What  an  eagle's 
eye  you  have !  But,  tell  me,  what  is  this  surprise  of 
yours  ?  " 

"  I  have  invited  some  of  our  friends  to  come  and 
breakfast  with  us ! " 

"  Really  !  Well,  that  is  capital !  Bravo,  marquis,  — 
bravissimo !  ultra-bravissimo  ! "  exclaimed  M.  de  Luce- 
nay, in  a  lusty  voice,  and  beating  the  sofa  cushions  with 
his  cane  with  all  his  might.  "  And  who  shall  we 
have,  —  Saint-Remy  ?  No,  I  recollect ;  he  has  been 
in  the  country  for  some  days.  What  the  devil  can 
he  be  pattering  about  in  the  country  in  the  mid-winter 
for?" 

"  Are  you  sure  he  is  not  in  Paris  ?  " 
"  Quite  sure ;  for  I  wrote  to  him  to  go  out  with  me, 
212 


THE  BACHELORS'  BREAKFAST. 


and  learned  he  was  absent;  and  so  I  fell  back  upon 
Lord  Douglas,  and  Sezannes." 

"  Nothing  can  be  better ;  they  breakfast  with  us." 

"  Bravo  !  bravo  !  bravo  !  "  exclaimed  M.  de  Lucenay 
again,  with  lusty  lungs ;  and  then,  wriggling  and  twist- 
ing himself  on  the  sofa,  he  accompanied  his  cries  with 
a  series  of  fishlike  bounds  and  springs,  which  would 
have  made  a  boatman  envious.  The  acrobatic  exercises 
of  the  Duke  de  Lucenay  were  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  M.  de  Saint-Remy. 

"  There  was  no  occasion  to  ask  if  Lucenay  was  here," 
said  the  viscount,  gaily;  "one  could  hear  him  below 
stairs." 

"  What !  Is  it  you,  graceful  sylvan,  country  swain,  — 
wolf  of  the  woods  ?  "  exclaimed  the  duke,  in  his  surprise, 
and  sitting  up  suddenly.  "  I  thought  you  were  in  the 
country  ! " 

"  I  came  back  yesterday ;  and,  having  this  instant 
received  D'Harville's  invitation,  I  have  hastened  hither, 
quite  delighted  to  make  one  in  so  pleasant  a  surprise." 
And  M.  de  Saint-Remy  extended  his  hand  to  M.  de 
Lucenay,  and  then  to  the  marquis. 

"  Let  me  thank  you  for  your  speed,  my  dear  Saint- 
Remy.  Is  it  not  natural  ?  The  friends  of  Lucenay 
ought  to  rejoice  in  the  fortunate  result  of  this  duel, 
which,  after  all,  might  have  had  very  serious  results." 

"  But,"  resumed  the  duke,  doggedly,  "  what  on  earth 
have  you  been  doing  in  the  country  in  the  middle  of 
winter,  Saint-Remy  ?    It  mystifies  me." 

"  How  inquisitive  he  is !  "  said  the  viscount,  address- 
ing M.  d'Harville  ;  and  then,  turning  to  the  duke,  "  I 
am  anxious  to  wean  myself  gradually  from  Paris,  as 
I  am  soon  to  quit  it." 

"  Ah,  yes,  the  beautiful  idea  of  attaching  you  to  the 
legation  from  France  to  Gerolstein !  Pray  leave  off 
those  silly  ideas  of  diplomacy !  You  will  never  go. 
My  wife  says  so,  everybody  says  the  same." 

213 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  assure  you  that  Madame  de  Lucenay  is  mistaken, 
as  well  as  all  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"  She  told  you,  in  my  presence,  that  it  was  a  folly." 

"  How  many  have  I  committed  in  my  life  ?  " 

"  Yes,  elegant,  charming  follies,  true  ;  —  such  as  people 
said  would  ruin  you  in  your  Sardanapalian  magnificences, 

—  that  I  admit.  But  to  go  and  bury  yourself  alive  in 
such  a  court,  —  at  Gerolstein  !  What  an  idea !  Psha  ! 
It  is  a  folly,  an  absurdity  ;  and  you  have  too  much  good 
sense  to  commit  absurdities." 

"  Take  care,  my  dear  Lucenay.  When  you  abuse  this 
German  court,  you  will  get  up  a  quarrel  with  D'Harville, 
the  intimate  friend  of  the  grand  duke  regnant,  who,  more- 
over, received  me  with  the  best  possible  grace  at  the 
embassy,  where  I  was  presented  to  him." 

"  Really,  my  dear  Henry,"  said  M.  d'Harville,  "  if  you 
knew  the  grand  duke  as  I  know  him,  you  would  under- 
stand that  Saint-Remy  could  have  no  repugnance  to 
passing  some  time  at  Gerolstein." 

"  I  believe  you,  marquis,  although  they  do  say  that  he 
is  very  haughty  and  very  peculiar,  your  grand  duke ;  but 
that  will  not  hinder  a  don  like  Saint-Remy,  the  finest 
sifting  of  the  finest  flour,  from  being  unable  to  live 
anywhere  but  in  Paris.  It  is  in  Paris  only  that  he  is 
duly  appreciated." 

The  other  guests  of  M.  d'Harville  now  arrived,  when 
Joseph  entered,  and  said  a  few  words  in  a  low  voice  to 
his  master. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  marquis,  "  will  you  allow  me  ? 

—  it  is  my  wife's  jeweller,  who  has  brought  some  dia- 
monds to  select  for  her,  —  a  surprise.  You  understand 
that,  Lucenay  ?  We  are  husbands  of  the  old  sort,  you 
and  I." 

"  Ah,  pardieu  !  If  it  is  a  surprise  you  mean,"  shouted 
the  duke,  "  my  wife  gave  me  one  yesterday,  and  a 
famous  one  too  ! " 

"  Some  magnificent  present  ?  " 

214 


THE  BACHELORS'  BREAKFAST. 


"She  asked  me  for  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
(4,000?.)-" 

"  And  you  are  such  a  magnifico  —  you  —  " 

"  Lent  them  to  her ;  they  are  advanced  as  mortgage 
on  her  Arnouville  estate.  Right  reckonings  make  good 
friends,  —  but  that's  by  the  by.  To  lend  in  two  hours 
a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  a  friend  who  requires  that 
sum  is  what  I  call  pretty,  but  rare.  Is  it  not  prodigal, 
you  who  are  a  connoisseur  in  loans  ? "  said  the  duke, 
laughingly,  to  Saint-Remy,  little  thinking  of  the  cutting 
purport  of  his  words. 

In  spite  of  his  effrontery,  the  viscount  blushed 
slightly,  and  then  replied,  with  composure: 

"  A  hundred  thousand  francs  ?  —  that  is  immense  ! 
What  could  a  woman  ever  want  with  such  a  sum  as  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  ?  As  for  us  men,  that  is  quite 
a  different  matter." 

"  Ma  foi !  I  really  do  not  know  what  she  could  want 
with  such  a  sum  as  that.  But  that's  not  my  affair. 
Some  arrears  for  the  toilet,  probably  ?  The  trades- 
people hungry  and  annoying, — -that's  her  affair.  And, 
as  you  know  very  well,  my  dear  Saint-Remy,  that,  as  it 
was  I  who  lent  my  wife  the  money,  it  would  have  been 
in  the  worst  possible  taste  in  me  to  have  inquired  the 
purpose  for  which  she  required  it." 

"  Yet,"  said  the  viscount,  with  a  laugh,  "  there  is 
usually  a  singular  curiosity  on  the  part  of  those  who 
lend  money  to  know  what  is  done  with  it." 

"Parbleu/  Saint-Remy,"  said  M.  d'Harville,  "you 
have  such  exquisite  taste,  that  you  must  help  me  to 
choose  the  ornament  I  intend  for  my  wife.  Your  ap- 
probation will  consecrate  my  choice ;  your  decisions  are 
sovereign  in  all  that  concerns  the  fashion." 

The  jeweller  entered,  bringing  with  him  several  caskets 
of  gems  in  a  large  leather  bag. 

"  Ah,  it  is  M.  Baudoin  !  "  said  M.  de  Lucenay. 

"  At  your  grace's  service." 

215 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  am  sure  that  it  is  you  who  ruined  my  wife  with 
your  dazzling  and  infernal  temptations,"  said  M.  de 
Lucenay. 

"  Madame  la  Duchesse  has  only  had  her  diamonds 
reset  this  winter,"  said  the  jeweller,  slightly  embar- 
rassed ;  "  and  now,  as  I  came  to  M.  le  Marquis,  I  left 
them  with  her  grace." 

M.  de  Saint-Remy  knew  that  Madame  de  Lucenay,  to 
aid  him,  had  changed  her  jewels  for  false  stones.  He 
was  disagreeably  embarrassed  at  this  rencontre,  but 
said,  boldly  : 

"  How  curious  these  husbands  are !  —  don't  answer 
any  inquisitive  interrogatories,  M.  Baudoin." 

"Curious;  ma  foil  no,"  said  the  duke;  "it  is  my 
wife  who  pays.  She  can  afford  all  her  whims,  for  she 
is  much  richer  than  I  am." 

During  this  conversation,  M.  Baudoin  had  displayed 
on  a  table  several  superb  necklaces  of  rubies  and 
diamonds. 

"  What  a  fine  water,  and  how  exquisitely  those  stones 
are  cut !  "  said  Lord  Douglas. 

"  Alas,  sir  ! "  said  the  jeweller,  "  I  employed  in  this 
work  one  of  the  most  skilful  lapidaries  in  Paris,  named 
Morel ;  but,  unfortunately,  he  has  become  insane,  and  I 
shall  never  find  such  another  workman.  My  matcher  of 
stones  says  that,  in  all  probability,  it  was  his  wretched 
condition  that  deprived  the  man  of  his  senses,  poor 
fellow ! " 

"  Wretched  condition !  What !  do  you  trust  diamonds 
to  people  in  distress  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir ;  and  there  is  no  instance  of  a  lapidary 
having  ever  pilfered  anything,  however  miserable  and 
destitute  his  condition." 

"  How  much  for  this  necklace  ? "  inquired  M. 
d'Harville. 

"  M.  le  Marquis  will  observe  that  the  stones  are  of  a 
splendid  water  and  cut,  and  nearly  all  of  a  size." 
216 


THE  BACHELORS'  BREAKFAST. 


"  These  oratorical  prefaces  threaten  your  purse,"  said 
M.  de  Saint-Remy,  with  a  laugh.  "  Now,  my  dear  D'Har- 
ville,  look  out  for  a  high  price." 

"  Come,  M.  Baudoin,  have  a  conscience,  and  ask  the 
price  you  mean  to  take  !  "  said  M.  d'Harville. 

"  I  will  not  haggle  with  your  lordship.  The  lowest 
price  is  forty-two  thousand  francs  (11,680/.)." 

»"  Gentlemen,"  exclaimed  M.  de  Lucenay,  "  let  us  who 
are  married  admire  D'Harville  in  silence.  A  man  who 
contrives  a  surprise  for  his  wife  to  the  amount  of  forty- 
two  thousand  francs  !  Diable  !  we  must  not  noise  that 
abroad,  or  it  would  be  a  detestable  precedent." 

"  Laugh  on,  gentlemen,  as  much  as  you  please,"  said 
the  marquis,  gaily.  "  I  love  my  wife,  and  am  not 
ashamed  to  confess  it ;  on  the  contrary,  I  boast  of  it." 

"  It  is  plain  enough  to  be  seen,"  said  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy  ;  "  such  a  present  speaks  more  eloquently  than  all 
the  protestation  in  the  world." 

"  I  will  take  this  necklace,  then,"  said  M.  d'Harville, 
"if  the  setting  of  black  enamel  seems  to  you  in  good 
taste,  Saint-Remy." 

"  Oh,  it  sets  off  the  brilliancy  of  the  stones ;  it  is 
exquisitely  devised." 

"  Then  this  it  shall  be,"  said  M.  d'Harville.  "  You 
will  settle,  M.  Baudoin,  with  M.  Doublet,  my  man  of 
business." 

"  M.  Doublet  told  me  as  much,  my  lord  marquis," 
said  the  jeweller,  who  quitted  the  apartment,  after 
having  packed  up  his  bag  without  counting  the  jewels 
which  he  had  brought  (such  was  his  confidence),  and 
notwithstanding  M.  de  Saint-Remy  had  for  a  long  time 
and  curiously  handled  and  examined  them  during  the 
interview. 

M.  d'Harville  gave  the  necklace  to  Joseph,  who  was 
waiting,  and  said  to  him,  in  a  low  tone : 

"  Mile.  Juliette  must  put  these  diamonds  cleverly 
away  with  those  of  her  mistress,  so  that  la  marquise 
217 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


may  not  suspect;  and  then  her  surprise  will  be  the 
greater." 

At  this  moment  the  maitre  d'hote!  announced  that 
the  breakfast  was  ready ;  and  the  guests,  passing  into 
the  dining-room,  seated  themselves. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  D'Harville,"  said  M.  de 
Lucenay,  "  that  this  house  is  one  of  the  most  elegant 
and  best  arranged  in  Paris  ?" 

"  It  is  very  convenient,  certainly,  but  we  want  room ; 
I  have  a  plan  to  add  a  gallery  on  the  garden.  Madame 
d'Harville  wishes  to  give  some  grand  balls,  and  our 
salons  are  not  large  enough.  Then,  I  think,  nothing  is 
more  inconvenient  than  the  encroachments  of  fetes  on 
the  apartments  one  usually  occupies,  and  from  which, 
on  such  occasions,  you  are  necessarily  driven." 

"  I  am  quite  of  D'Harville's  opinion,"  said  M.  de 
Saint-Remy ;  "  nothing  is  more  wretched,  more  trades- 
manlike, than  these  movings,  compelled  by  the  coming 
of  balls  and  concerts.  To  give  f£tes,  really  of  the  first 
class,  without  inconveniencing  oneself,  there  must  be 
devoted  to  their  uses  peculiar  and  special  suites  of 
apartments ;  and  then  vast  and  splendid  rooms,  devoted 
to  a  magnificent  ball,  ought  to  assume  an  appearance 
wholly  distinct  from  that  of  ordinary  salons.  There  is 
the  same  difference  between  these  two  sets  of  apart- 
ments as  between  a  monumental  fresco-painting  and  a 
sketch  on  a  painter's  easel." 

"He  is  right,"  said  M.  d'Harville.  "What  a  pity, 
gentlemen,  that  Saint-Remy  has  not  twelve  or  fifteen 
hundred  thousand  livres  a  year !  What  wonders  he 
would  create  for  our  admiration !  " 

"  Since  we  have  the  happiness  to  possess  a  repre- 
sentative government,"  said  the  Duke  de  Lucenay, 
"  the  country  ought  to  vote  a  million  or  two  a  year 
to  Saint-Remy,  and  authorise  him  to  represent  in  Paris 
the  French  taste  and  elegance,  which  should  decide  the 
taste  and  elegance  of  all  Europe,  —  all  the  world." 
218 


THE  BACHELORS'  BREAKFAST. 


"  Adopted !  "  cried  the  guests  in  chorus. 

"And  we  would  raise  these  annual  millions  as  com- 
pulsory taxes  on  those  abominable  misers,  who,  being 
possessors  of  colossal  fortunes,  should  be  marked  down, 
accused,  and  convicted  of  living  like  gripe-farthings," 
added  M.  de  Lucenay. 

"  And  as  such,"  added  M.  d'Harville,  "  condemned  to 
defray  those  splendours  which  they  ought  to  display." 

"  Not  including  that  these  functions  of  high  priest,  or, 
rather,  grand  master  of  elegance,  which  would  devolve 
on  Saint-Remy,"  continued  M.  de  Lucenay,  "  would 
have,  by  imitation,  an  enormous  influence  on  the  gen- 
eral taste." 

"  He  would  be  the  type  which  all  would  seek  to 
resemble." 

"  That  is  evident." 

"  And,  in  endeavouring  to  imitate  him,  taste  would 
become  purified." 

"  At  the  time  of  the  Renaissance  taste  became  uni- 
versally excellent,  because  it  was  modelled  on  that  of 
the  aristocracy,  which  was  exquisite." 

"  By  the  serious  turn  which  the  question  has  taken," 
said  M.  d'Harville,  gaily,  "I  see  that  we  have  only  to 
address  a  petition  to  the  Chambers  for  the  establishment 
of  the  office  of  grand  master  of  French  elegance." 

"  And  as  the  Deputies  have  credit  for  possessing  very 
elevated,  very  artistic,  and  very  magnificent  ideas,  of 
course  it  will  be  voted  by  acclamation." 

"  Whilst  we  are  waiting  the  decision  which  shall 
establish  as  a  right  the  supremacy  which  Saint-Remy 
exercises  in  fact,"  said  M.  d'Harville,  "I  will  ask  him 
his  opinion  as  to  the  gallery  which  I  propose  to  erect ; 
for  I  have  been  struck  with  his  ideas  as  to  the  right 
splendour  of  f^tes." 

"  My  faint  lights  are  at  your  service,  D'Harville." 

"And  when  shall  we  commence  our  magnificences, 
my  dear  fellow  ? " 

219 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Next  year,  I  suppose,  for  1  intend  to  begin  my 
works  without  delay." 

"  How  full  of  projects  you  are !  " 

"  Ma  fyi !  I  have  others  also ;  I  contemplate  an  entire 
alteration  of  Val-Richer." 

"  Your  estate  in  Burgundy  ? " 

"  Yes ;  there  is  much  that  may  be  done  there,  if, 
indeed,  God  grants  me  life." 
«  Poor  old  fellow  !  " 

"  Have  you  not  recently  bought  a  farm  near  Val- 
Richer  to  complete  your  ring-fence  ? " 

"  Yes,  a  very  nice  thing,  to  which  I  was  advised  by 
my  notary." 

"And  who  is  this  rare  and  precious  notary  who 
advises  such  admirable  purchases?" 
"  M.  Jacques  Ferrand." 

At  this  name  a  slight  shudder  came  over  M.  de 
Saint-Remy,  and  he  frowned  imperceptibly. 

"  Is  he  really  the  honest  man  they  call  him  ? "  he 
inquired,  carelessly,  of  M.  d'Harville,  who  then  remem- 
bered what  Rodolph  had  related  to  Cle*mence  about  the 
notary. 

"  Jacques  Ferrand  ?  What  a  question !  Why,  his 
honesty  is  a  proverb,"  said  M.  de  Lucenay. 

"As  respected  as  respectable." 

"  And  very  pious ;  which  does  him  no  harm." 

"  Excessively  stingy ;  which  is  a  guarantee  for  his 
clients." 

"  In  fact,  he  is  one  of  the  notaries  of  the  '  old  rock,' 
who  ask  you  whom  you  take  them  for  when  you  ask 
them  for  a  receipt  for  the  money  which  you  place  in 
their  hands." 

"  That  would  have  no  effect  on  me ;  I  would  trust 
him  with  my  whole  fortune." 

"  But  where  the  deuce  did  Saint-Remy  imbibe  his 
doubts  with  respect  to  this  honest  man,  whose  integrity 
is  proverbial  ? " 

220 


THE  BACHELORS'  BREAKFAST. 


"  I  am  but  the  echo  of  certain  vague  reports ;  besides, 
I  have  no  reason  for  running  down  this  phoenix  of 
notaries.  But  to  return  to  your  plans,  D'Harville,  what 
is  it  you  wish  to  build  at  Yal-Richer  ?  I  have  heard 
that  the  chateau  is  excessively  beautiful." 

"  Make  yourself  easy,  my  dear  Saint-Remy,  for  you 
shall  be  consulted,  and  sooner  than  you  expect,  perhaps, 
for  I  take  much  pleasure  in  such  works.  I  think  that 
there  is  nothing  more  interesting  than  to  have  those 
affairs  in  hand,  which  expand  as  you  examine  them, 
and  they  advance,  giving  you  occupation  for  years  to 
come.  To-day  one  project,  next  year  another,  after  that 
something  else  springs  up.  Add  to  this  a  charming 
woman  whom  one  adores,  and  who  shares  your  every 
taste  and  pleasure,  then,  ma  foil  life  passes  sweetly 
enough." 

"  I  think  so,  pardieu !  Why,  it  then  makes  earth  a 
perfect  paradise." 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  D'Harville,  when  the  break- 
fast was  finished,  "  if  you  will  smoke  a  cigar  in  my 
cabinet,  you  will  find  some  excellent  Havannahs  tnere." 

They  rose  from  the  table,  and  returned  to  the  cabinet 
of  the  marquis.  The  door  of  his  bedchamber,  which 
communicated  with  it,  was  open.  We  have  said  the 
only  decoration  of  the  room  consisted  of  two  small  racks 
of  very  beautiful  arms. 

M.  de  Lucenay,  having  lighted  a  cigar,  followed  the 
marquis  into  his  room. 

"  You  see,  I  am  still  a  great  lover  of  good  weapons," 
said  D'Harville  to  him. 

"  Yes,  and  I  see  you  have  here  some  splendid  English 
and  French  guns.  Ma  foi!  I  hardly  know  which  to 
admire  most.  Douglas,"  exclaimed  M.  de  Lucenay, 
"  come  and  see  if  these  fowling-pieces  are  not  equal  to 
your  crack  Mantons." 

Lord  Douglas,  Saint-Remy,  and  the  two  other  guests 
went  into  the  marquis's  room  to  examine  the  arms. 
221 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


M.  d'Harville,  taking  down  a  duelling-pistol,  cocked 
it,  and  said,  laughingly : 

"  Here,  gentlemen,  is  the  universal  panacea  for  all  the 
ills,  —  spleen,  disgust,  weariness." 

And  as  he  spoke,  jestingly,  he  placed  the  muzzle  to 
his  lips. 

"  Ma  foil  I  prefer  another  specific,"  said  Saint-Remy ; 
"  that  is  only  good  in  the  most  desperate  cases." 

"Yes,  but  it  is  so  speedy,"  said  M.  d'Harville.  " Click! 
and  it  is  done  ! " 

"  Pray  be  cautious,  D'Harville ;  these  jokes  are  always 
so  rash  and  dangerous;  and  accident  happens  in  an 
instant,"  said  M.  de  Lucenay. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  do  you  think  I  would  do  so  if  it 
were  loaded  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  but  it  is  always  imprudent." 

"  See,  gentlemen,  how  it  is  done.  You  introduce  the 
muzzle  delicately  between  the  teeth,  and  then  —  " 

"  How  foolish  you  are,  D'Harville,  to  place  it  so ! " 
said  M.  de  Lucenay. 

"  You  place  your  finger  on  the  trigger  —  "  continued 
M.  d'Harville. 

«  What  a  child  !    What  folly  at  your  age !  " 

"  A  small  touch  on  the  lock,"  added  the  marquis, 
"  and  one  goes  —  " 

As  he  spoke  the  pistol  went  off.  M.  d'Harville  had 
blown  his  brains  out. 

It  is  impossible  to  paint  the  horror,  —  the  stupor,  of 
M.  d'Harville's  guests. 

Next  day  the  following  appeared  in  one  of  the  news- 
papers : 

"  Yesterday  an  event,  as  unforeseen  as  deplorable,  put  all  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain  in  a  state  of  excitement.  One  of  those 
imprudent  acts,  which  every  year  produce  such  sad  accidents,  has 
caused  this  terrible  misfortune.  The  following  are  the  facts 
which  we  have  gathered,  the  authenticity  of  which  may  be  relied 
upon. 

222 


THE  BACHELORS'  BREAKFAST. 


"  The  Marquis  d'Harville,  the  possessor  of  an  immense  fortune, 
and  scarcely  twenty-six  years  of  age,  universally  known  for  his 
kind-hearted  benevolence,  and  married  but  a  few  years  to  a  wife 
whom  he  idolised,  had  some  friends  to  breakfast  with  him ;  on 
leaving  the  table,  they  went  into  M.  d'Harville's  sleeping  apart- 
ment, where  there  were  several  firearms  of  considerable  value. 
Whilst  the  guests  were  looking  at  some  choice  fowling-pieces,  M. 
d'Harville  in  jest  took  up  a  pistol  which  he  thought  was  not 
loaded,  and  placed  the  muzzle  to  his  lips.  Though  warned  by 
his  friends,  he  pressed  on  the  trigger,  —  the  pistol  went  off,  and 
the  unfortunate  young  gentleman  dropped  down  dead,  with  his 
skull  horribly  fractured.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  extreme 
consternation  of  the  friends  of  M.  d'Harville,  with  whom  but 
a  few  instants  before  he  had  been  talking  of  various  plans  and 
projects,  full  of  life,  spirits,  and  animation.  In  fact,  as  if  all  the 
circumstances  of  this  sad  event  must  be  still  more  cruel  by  the 
most  painful  contrasts,  that  very  morning  M.  d'Harville,  desirous 
of  agreeably  surprising  his  wife,  had  purchased  a  most  expensive 
ornament,  which  he  intended  as  a  present  to  her.  It  was  at  this 
very  moment,  when,  perhaps,  life  had  never  appeared  more  smil- 
ing and  attractive,  that  he  fell  a  victim  to  this  most  distressing 
accident. 

"All  reflections  on  such  a  dreadful  event  are  useless.  We 
can  only  remain  overwhelmed  at  the  inscrutable  decrees  of 
Providence." 

We  quote  this  journal  in  order  to  show  the  general 
opinion  which  attributed  the  death  of  Cle'mence's  hus- 
band to  fatal  and  lamentable  imprudence. 

Is  there  any  occasion  to  say  that  M.  d'Harville  alone 
carried  with  him  to  the  tomb  the  mysterious  secret  of 
his  voluntary  death,  —  yes,  voluntary  and  calculated 
upon,  and  meditated  with  as  much  calmness  as  gener- 
osity, in  order  that  Clemence  might  not  conceive  the 
slightest  suspicion  as  to  the  real  cause  of  his  suicide  ? 

Thus  the  projects  of  which  M.  d'Harville  had  talked 
with  his  steward  and  his  friends,  —  those  happy  confi- 
dences to  his  old  servant,  the  surprise  which  he  proposed 
for  his  wife,  were  all  but  so  many  precautions  for  the 
public  credulity. 

How  could  it  be  supposed  that  a  man  so  preoccupied 
as  to  the  future,  so  anxious  to  please  his  wife,  could 
223 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


think  of  killing  himself?  His  death  was,  therefore, 
attributed  to  imprudence,  and  could  not  be  attributed 
to  anything  else. 

As  to  his  determination,  an  incurable  despair  had  dic- 
tated that.  By  showing  herself  as  affectionate  towards 
him,  and  as  tender  as  she  had  formerly  been  cold  and 
disdainful,  by  again  appearing  to  entertain  a  high 
regard,  Cle'mence  had  awakened  in  the  heart  of  her 
husband  deep  remorse. 

Seeing  her  so  sadly  resigned  to  a  long  life  without 
love,  passed  with  a  man  visited  by  an  incurable  and 
frightful  malady,  and  utterly  persuaded  that,  after  her 
solemn  conversation,  Cle'mence  could  never  subdue  the 
repugnance  with  which  he  inspired  her,  M.  d'Harville 
was  seized  with  a  profound  pity  for  his  wife,  and  an 
entire  disgust  for  himself  and  for  life. 

In  the  exasperation  of  his  anguish,  he  said  to  himself: 

"  I  only  love,  —  I  never  can  love,  —  but  one  woman 
in  the  world,  and  she  is  my  own  wife.  Her  conduct,  full 
of  noble-heartedness  and  high  mind,  would  but  increase 
my  mad  passion,  if  it  be  possible  to  increase  it.  And 
she,  my  wife,  can  never  belong  to  me !  She  has  a  right 
to  despise,  —  to  hate  me  !  I  have,  by  base  deceit,  chained 
this  young  creature  to  my  hateful  lot !  I  repent  it  bit- 
terly. What,  then,  should  I  do  for  her  ?  Free  her  from 
the  hateful  ties  which  my  selfishness  has  riveted  upon 
her.  My  death  alone  can  break  those  rivets ;  and  I  must, 
therefore,  die  by  my  own  hand  ! " 

This  was  why  M.  d'Harville  had  accomplished  this 
great,  —  this  terrible  sacrifice. 

The  inexorable  immutability  of  the  law  sometimes 
makes  certain  terrible  positions  irremediable,  and,  as  in 
this  case  (as  divorce  was  unattainable),  only  allows  the 
injury  to  be  effaced  by  an  additional  crime. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


ST.  LAZARE. 

The  prison  of  St.  Lazare,  especially  devoted  to 
female  thieves  and  prostitutes,  is  daily  visited  by  many 
ladies,  whose  charity,  whose  names,  and  whose  social 
position  command  universal  respect.  These  ladies,  edu- 
cated in  the  midst  of  the  splendours  of  fortune,  —  these 
ladies,  properly  belonging  to  the  best  society,  —  come 
every  week  to  pass  long  hours  with  the  miserable  pris- 
oners of  St.  Lazare ;  watching  in  these  degraded  souls 
for  the  least  indication  of  an  aspiration  towards  good, 
the  least  regret  for  a  past  criminal  life,  and  encouraging 
the  good  tendencies,  urging  repentance,  and,  by  the  potent 
magic  of  the  words,  Duty,  Honour,  Virtue,  withdrawing 
from  time  to  time  one  of  these  abandoned,  fallen,  degraded, 
despised  creatures,  from  the  depths  of  utter  pollution. 

Accustomed  to  delicacy  and  the  most  polished  breed- 
ing of  the  highest  circles,  these  courageous  females  quit 
their  homes,  after  having  pressed  their  lips  on  the  virgin 
foreheads  of  their  daughters,  pure  as  the  angels  of 
heaven,  and  go  into  dark  prisons  to  brave  the  coarse 
indifference  or  infamous  language  of  these  thieves  and 
lost  women. 

Faithful  to  their  tasks  of  high  morality,  they  boldly 
plunge  into  the  tainted  soil,  place  their  hands  on  those 
gangrened  hearts,  and,  if  any  feeble  pulsation  of  honour 
reveals  to  them  a  slight  hope  of  recovery,  they  contend 
for  and  snatch  from  irrevocable  perdition  the  wretched 
soul  of  which  they  have  never  despaired. 

225 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Having  said  so  much  by  way  of  introduction  to  the 
new  scenes  to  which  we  are  about  to  direct  attention,  we 
will  introduce  the  reader  to  St.  Lazare,  an  immense 
edifice  of  imposing  and  repulsive  aspect,  situated  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Denis. 

Ignorant  of  the  shocking  drama  that  was  passing  at 
her  own  house,  Madame  d'Harville  had  gone  to  the 
prison,  after  having  received  certain  information  from 
Madame  de  Lucenay  as  to  the  two  unhappy  females 
whom  the  cupidity  of  Jacques  Ferrand  had  plunged 
into  misery.  Madame  de  Blinval,  one  of  the  patronesses 
of  the  charity  of  the  young  prisoners,  being  on  this  day 
unable  to  accompany  Cldmence  to  St.  Lazare,  she  had 
gone  thither  alone.  She  was  received  with  great  atten- 
tion by  the  governor  and  the  several  female  superinten- 
dents, who  were  distinguished  by  their  black  garments 
and  the  blue  riband  with  the  silver  medal  which  they 
wore  around  their  necks.  One  of  these  superintendents, 
a  female  of  mature  age,  with  a  serious  but  kind  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  remained  alone  with  Madame 
d'Harville,  in  a  small  room  attached  to  the  registry 
office. 

We  may  easily  suppose  that  there  is  often  unrec- 
ognised devotion,  understanding,  commiseration,  and 
sagacity  amongst  the  respectable  females  who  devote 
themselves  to  the  humble  and  obscure  function  of  super- 
intendent of  the  prisoners.  Nothing  can  be  more  excel- 
lent, more  practical,  than  the  notions  of  order,  work, 
and  duty  which  they  endeavour  to  instil  into  the 
prisoners,  in  the  hope  that  these  instructions  may 
survive  their  term  of  imprisonment.  In  turns  indul- 
gent and  firm,  patient  and  severe,  but  always  just 
and  impartial,  these  females,  incessantly  in  contact 
with  the  prisoners,  end,  after  the  lengthened  experi- 
ence of  years,  by  acquiring  such  a  knowledge  of  the 
physiognomy  of  these  unfortunates  that  they  can  judge 
of  them  almost  invariably  from  the  first  glance,  and 
226 


ST.  LAZARE. 


can  at  once  classify  them  according  to  their  degree  of 
immorality. 

Madame  Armand,  the  inspectress  who  remained  with 
Madame  d'Harville,  possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree 
this  almost  supernatural  prescience  as  to  the  character  of 
the  prisoners;  her  words  and  decisions  had  very  great 
weight  in  the  establishment. 

Madame  Armand  said  to  Cle'rnence : 

"  Since  madame  wishes  me  to  point  out  to  her  such 
of  our  prisoners  as  have  by  good  conduct,  or  sincere 
repentance,  deserved  that  an  interest  should  be  taken 
in  them,  I  believe  I  can  mention  to  her  a  poor  girl 
whom  I  believe  to  be  more  unfortunate  than  culpable  ;  for 
I  am  not  deceived  when  I  say  that  it  is  not  too  late  to 
save  this  young  girl,  an  unhappy  creature  of  not  more 
than  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  of  age." 

"  And  for  what  is  she  imprisoned  ?  " 

"  She  is  guilty  of  being  found  in  the  Champs  Elyse'es 
in  the  evening.  As  it  is  prohibited  to  such  females, 
under  very  severe  penalties,  to  frequent,  by  day  or 
night,  certain  public  places,  and  as  the  Champs  Elyse'es 
are  in  the  number  of  the  forbidden  promenades,  she  was 
apprehended." 

"  And  does  she  appear  to  you  interesting  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  features  more  regular,  more  ingenuous. 
Picture  to  yourself,  my  lady,  the  face  of  a  Virgin ;  and 
what  adds  still  more  to  the  expression  of  modesty  in  her 
countenance  is  that,  on  coming  here,  she  was  dressed  like 
a  peasant  girl  of  the  environs  of  Paris." 

"  She  is,  then,  a  country  girl  ? " 

"  No,  my  lady ;  the  inspectors  knew  her  again. 
She  had  lived  for  some  weeks  in  a  horrible  abode 
in  the  Cite*,  from  which  she  has  been  absent  for  two 
or  three  months ;  but,  as  she  had  not  demanded  the 
erasure  of  her  name  from  the  police  registries,  she 
comes  under  the  power  of  that  body,  which  has  sent  her 
hither." 

227 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"But,  perhaps,  she  had  quitted  Paris  to  try  and 
reinstate  herself?" 

"  I  think  so,  madame  ;  and  it  is  therefore  I  have 
taken  such  an  interest  in  her.  I  have  questioned  her 
as  to  her  past  life,  inquired  if  she  came  from  the  country, 
and  told  her  to  hope,  as  I  did  myself,  that  she  might 
still  return  to  a  course  of  good  life." 

"  And  what  reply  did  she  make  ? " 

"  Lifting  her  full  and  melancholy  blue  eyes  on  me, 
filled  with  tears,  she  said,  with  angelic  sweetness,  '  I 
thank  you,  madame,  for  your  kindness  ;  but  I  cannot 
say  one  word  as  to  the  past ;  I  was  apprehended,  —  I 
was  doing  wrong,  and  I  do  not  therefore  complain.' 
'  But  where  do  you  come  from  ?  Where  have  you  been 
since  you  quitted  the  Cite  ?  If  you  went  into  the 
country  to  seek  an  honest  livelihood,  say  so,  and  prove 
it.  We  will  write  to  the  prefect  to  obtain  your  liberty, 
your  name  will  be  scratched  oft'  the  police  register,  and 
you  will  be  encouraged  in  your  good  resolutions.'  1 1 
beseech  you,  madame,  do  not  ask  me  ;  I  cannot  answer 
you,'  she  replied.  '  But,  on  leaving  this  house,  would 
you  return  again  to  that  place  of  infamy  ? '  'Oh, 
never  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  What,  then,  will  you  do  ? ' 
'  God  only  knows ! '  she  replied,  letting  her  head  fall 
on  her  bosom." 

"  Very  singular !    And  she  expresses  herself  —  " 

"  In  very  excellent  terms,  madame ;  her  deportment 
is  timid  and  respectful,  but  without  servility  ;  nay,  more, 
in  spite  of  the  extreme  gentleness  of  her  voice  and  look, 
there  is  in  her  accent  and  her  attitude  a  sort  of  proud 
sorrow  which  puzzles  me.  If  she  did  not  belong  to  that 
wretched  class  of  which  she  forms  one,  I  should  say 
that  her  haughtiness  announces  a  soul  which  has  a 
consciousness  of  dignity." 

"  But  this  is  all  a  romance ! "  exclaimed  Cldmence, 
deeply  interested,  and  finding,  as  Rodolph  had  told 
her,  that  nothing  was  more  interesting  than  to  do 
228 


ST.  LAZARE. 


good.  "And  how  does  she  behave  with  the  other 
prisoners  ?  If  she  is  endowed  with  that  dignity  of 
soul  that  you  imagine,  she  must  suffer  excessively  in 
the  midst  of  her  wretched  associates." 

"  Madame,  for  me,  who  observe  all  from  my  position, 
and  from  habit,  all  about  this  young  girl  is  a  subject  of 
astonishment.  Although  she  has  been  here  only  three 
days,  yet  she  already  possesses  a  sort  of  influence  over 
the  other  prisoners." 

"  In  so  short  a  time  ?  " 

"They  feel  for  her  not  only  interest,  but  almost 
respect." 

"  What !  these  unhappy  women  —  " 

"  Have  sometimes  the  instinct  of  a  remarkable  delicacy 
in  recognising  and  detecting  noble  qualities  in  others  ; 
only,  they  frequently  hate  those  persons  whose  superi- 
ority they  are  compelled  to  admit." 

"  But  do  they  hate  this  poor  girl  ?  " 

"  Par  from  it,  my  lady  ;  none  of  them  knew  her  before 
she  came  here.  They  were  at  first  struck  with  her 
appearance.  Her  features,  although  of  singular  beauty, 
are,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  covered  with  a  touching 
and  sickly  paleness ;  and  this  melancholy  and  gentle 
countenance  at  first  inspired  them  with  more  interest 
than  jealousy.  Then  she  is  very  silent,  another  source 
of  surprise  for  these  creatures,  who,  for  the  most  part, 
always  endeavour  to  banish  thought  by  making  a  noise, 
talking,  and  moving  about.  In  fact,  although  reserved 
and  retiring,  she  showed  herself  compassionate,  which 
prevented  her  companions  from  taking  offence  at  her 
coldness  of  manner.  This  is  not  all :  about  a  month 
sine. ,  an  intractable  creature,  nicknamed  La  Louve  (the 
she- wolf),  such  is  her  violent  and  brutal  character,  be- 
came a  resident  here.  She  is  a  woman  of  twenty  years 
of  age,  tall,  masculine,  with  good-looking  but  strongly 
marked  features,  and  we  are  sometimes  compelled  to 
place  her  in  the  black-hole  to  subdue  her  violence.  The 
229 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

day  before  yesterday,  only,  she  came  out  of  the  cell,  still 
irritated  at  the  punishment  she  had  undergone ;  it  was 
meal-time,  the  poor  girl  of  whom  I  speak  could  not  eat, 
and  said,  sorrowfully,  to  her  companions, '  Who  will  have 
my  bread  V  'I  will ! '  said  La  Louve.  '  I  will ! '  then 
said  a  creature  almost  deformed,  called  Mont  Saint-Jean, 
who  is  the  laughing-stock  and,  sometimes  in  spite  of  us, 
the  butt  of  the  other  prisoners,  although  several  months 
advanced  in  pregnancy.  The  young  girl  gave  her  bread 
to  this  latter,  to  the  extreme  anger  of  La  Louve.  '  It 
was  I  who  asked  you  for  the  allowance  first ! '  she 
exclaimed,  furiously.  '  That  is  true ;  but  this  poor 
woman  is  about  to  become  a  mother,  and  wants  it 
more  than  you  do,'  replied  the  young  girl.  La  Louve, 
notwithstanding,  snatched  the  bread  from  the  hands  of 
Mont  Saint-Jean,  and  began  to  wave  her  knife  about, 
and  to  vociferate  loudly.  As  she  is  very  evil-disposed 
and  much  feared,  no  one  dared  take  the  part  of  the  poor 
Goualeuse,  although  all  the  prisoners  silently  sided  with 
her." 

"  What  do  you  call  her  name,  madame  ?  " 

"  La  Goualeuse  ;  it  is  the  name,  or  rather  the  nick- 
name, under  which  they  brought  her  here  who  is  my 
protegee,  and  will,  I  hope,  my  lady,  soon  be  yours. 
Almost  all  of  them  have  borrowed  names." 

"  This  is  a  very  singular  one." 

"  It  signifies  in  their  horrid  jargon  '  the  singer,'  for 
the  young  girl  has,  they  told  me,  a  very  delightful  voice ; 
and  I  believe  it,  for  her  speaking  tones  are  sweetness 
itself." 

"  But  how  did  she  escape  from  this  wretch,  La  Louve  ?  " 

"  Rendered  still  more  furious  by  the  composure  of  La 
Goualeuse,  she  rushed  towards  her,  uttering  menaces, 
and  with  her  uplifted  knife  in  her  hand.  All  the  pris- 
oners cried  out  with  fear ;  La  Goualeuse  alone,  looking 
at  this  fierce  creature  without  alarm,  smiled  at  her 
bitterly  and  said,  in  her  sweet  voice, '  Oh,  kill  me !  Kill 
230 


ST.  LAZABE. 


me !  I  am  willing  to  die.  But  do  not  make  me  suffer 
too  great  pain!'  These  words,  they  told  me,  were 
uttered  with  a  simplicity  so  affecting,  that  almost  all 
the  prisoners  burst  into  tears." 

"  I  can  imagine  so,"  said  Madame  d'Harville,  deeply 
moved. 

"  The  worst  characters,"  continued  the  inspectress, 
"  have,  fortunately,  occasional  good  feelings.  When  she 
heard  these  words,  bearing  the  stamp  of  such  painful 
resignation,  La  Louve,  touched  (as  she  afterwards  de- 
clared) to  her  inmost  core,  threw  her  knife  on  the 
ground,  fell  at  her  feet  and  exclaimed,  '  It  was  wrong  — 
shameful  to  threaten  you,  Goualeuse,  for  I  am  stronger 
than  you !  You  are  not  afraid  of  my  knife ;  you  are 
bold  —  brave  !  I  like  brave  people ;  and  now,  from  this 
day  forth,  if  any  dare  to  molest  you,  let  them  beware, 
for  I  will  defend  you.'  " 

"  What  a  singular  being !  " 

"  This  incident  strengthened  La  Goualeuse's  influence 
still  more  and  more.  A  thing  almost  unexampled  here/ 
none  of  the  prisoners  accost  her  familiarly.  The  majority 
are  respectful  to  her,  and  even  proffer  to  do  for  her  all  the 
little  services  that  prisoners  can  render  to  one  another. 
I  spoke  to  some  of  the  women  of  her  dormitory,  to  learn 
the  reason  of  this  deference  which  was  evinced  towards 
her.  1  It  is  hardly  explicable  to  ourselves,'  they  replied ; 
'  but  it  is  easy  to  perceive  she  is  not  one  of  us.'  '  But 
who  told  you  so ? '  'No  one  told  us ;  it  is  easy  to  dis- 
cover it.'  '  By  what  ? '  '  By  a  thousand  things.  In  the 
first  place,  before  she  goes  to  bed,  she  goes  down  on  her 
knees  and  says  her  prayers  ;  and  if  she  pray,  as  La  Louve 
says,  why,  she  must  have  a  right  to  do  so.'  " 

"  What  a  strange  observation  ! " 

"These  unhappy  creatures  have  no  religious  feeling, 
and  still  they  never  utter  here  an  impious  or  irreligious 
word.    You  will  see,  madame,  in  all  our  rooms  small 
altars,  where  the  statue  of  the  Virgin  is  surrounded  with 
231 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


offerings  and  ornaments  which  they  have  made.  Every 
Sunday  they  burn  a  quantity  of  wax  candles  before  them 
in  ex-voto.  Those  who  attend  the  chapel  behave  remark- 
ably well ;  but  generally  the  very  sight  of  holy  places 
frightens  them.  To  return  to  La  Goualeuse  ;  her  com- 
panions said  to  me, '  We  see  that  she  is  not  one  of  us,  by 
her  gentle  ways,  her  sadness,  and  the  manner  in  which 
she  talks.'  'And  then,'  added  La  Louve  (who  was 
present  at  this  conversation),  abruptly,  « it  is  quite 
certain  that  she  is  not  one  of  us,  for  this  morning,  in 
the  dormitory,  without  knowing  why,  we  were  all 
ashamed  of  dressing  ourselves  before  her.' " 

"  What  remarkable  delicacy  in  the  midst  of  so  much 
degradation  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  d'Harville. 

"  Yes,  madame,  in  the  presence  of  men,  and  amongst 
themselves,  modesty  is  unknown  to  them,  and  yet  they 
are  painfully  confused  at  being  seen  half  dressed  by  us 
or  the  charitable  visitors  who  come,  like  your  ladyship, 
to  the  prison.  Thus  the  profound  instinct  of  modesty, 
which  God  has  implanted  in  us,  reveals  itself  even  in 
these  fallen  creatures,  at  the  sight  of  those  persons 
whom  they  can  respect." 

"  It  is  at  least  consolatory  to  find  some  good  and 
natural  feelings,  which  are  stronger  even  than  de- 
pravity." 

"  Assuredly  it  is ;  and  these  women  are  capable  of 
devoted  attachments  which,  were  they  worthily  placed, 
would  be  most  honourable.  There  is  also  another  sacred 
feeling  with  them,  who  respect  nothing,  fear  nothing, 
and  that  is  maternity.  They  honour  it,  rejoice  at  it ;  and 
they  are  admirable  mothers,  considering  nothing  a  sacri- 
fice to  keep  their  children  near  them.  They  will  undergo 
any  trouble,  difficulty,  or  danger  that  they  may  bring  them 
up ;  for,  as  they  say,  these  little  beings  are  the  only  ones 
who  do  not  despise  them." 

"  Have  they,  then,  so  deep  a  sense  of  their  abject 
condition  ?  " 

232 


ST.  LAZARE. 


"They  are  not  half  so  much  despised  by  others  as 
they  despise  themselves.  With  those  who  sincerely 
repent,  the  original  blot  of  sin  is  ineffaceable  in  their 
own  eyes,  even  if  they  should  find  themselves  in  a  better 
position;  others  go  mad,  so  irremediably  is  this  idea 
imprinted  in  their  minds ;  and  I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised, madame,  if  the  heartfelt  grief  of  La  Goualeuse 
is  attributable  to  something  of  this  nature." 

"If  so,  how  she  must  suffer!  —  a  remorse  which 
nothing  can  soothe!" 

"  Fortunately,  madame,  this  remorse  is  more  frequent 
than  is  commonly  believed.  The  avenging  conscience 
is  never  completely  lulled  to  sleep ;  or,  rather,  strange 
as  it  may  appear,  sometimes  it  would  seem  that  the 
soul  is  awake  whilst  the  body  is  in  a  stupor ;  and  this 
remark  I  again  made  last  night  in  reference  to  my 
protege." 

"  What !  La  Goualeuse  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"Frequently,  when  the  prisoners  are  asleep,  I  walk 
through  the  dormitories.  You  would  scarcely  believe, 
my  lady,  how  the  countenances  of  these  women  differ  in 
expression  whilst  they  are  slumbering.  A  good  number 
of  them,  whom  I  have  seen  during  the  day,  saucy,  care- 
less, bold,  insolent,  have  appeared  entirely  changed  when 
sleep  has  removed  from  their  features  all  exaggeration 
of  bravado  ;  for,  alas,  vice  has  its  pride  !  Oh,  madame, 
what  sad  revelations  on  those  dejected,  mournful,  and 
gloomy  faces !  What  painful  sighs,  involuntarily  elicited 
by  some  dream.  I  was  speaking  to  your  ladyship  just 
now  of  the  girl  they  call  La  Louve,  —  an  untamed, 
untamable  creature.  It  is  but  a  fortnight  since  that 
she  abused  me  in  the  vilest  terms  before  all  the  pris- 
oners. I  shrugged  up  my  shoulders,  and  my  indifference 
whetted  her  rage.  Then,  in  order  to  offend  me  more 
sorely,  she  began  to  say  all  sorts  of  disgraceful  things 
233 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


of  my  mother,  whom  she  had  often  seen  come  here  to 
visit  me." 

"  What  a  shameful  creature  !  " 

"  I  confess  that,  although  this  attack  was  not  worth 
minding,  yet  it  made  me  feel  uncomfortable.  La  Louve 
perceived  this,  and  rejoiced  in  it.  The  same  night, 
about  midnight,  I  went  to  inspect  the  dormitories  ;  I 
went  to  La  Louve's  bedside  (she  was  not  to  be  put  in 
the  dark  cell  until  next  day)  and  I  was  struck  with  her 
calmness,  —  I  might  say  the  sweetness  of  her  counte- 
nance, —  compared  with  the  harsh  and  daring  expression 
which  is  habitual  to  it.  Her  features  seemed  suppliant, 
filled  with  regret  and  contrition  ;  her  lips  were  half  open, 
her  breast  seemed  oppressed,  and  —  what  appeared  to  me 
incredible,  for  I  thought  it  impossible — two  tears,  two 
large  tears,  were  in  the  eyes  of  this  woman,  whose  dis- 
position was  of  iron  !  1  looked  at  her  in  silence  for 
several  minutes,  when  I  heard  her  say,  4  Pardon !  Par- 
don !  Her  mother ! '  I  listened  more  attentively,  but  all 
I  could  catch,  in  the  midst  of  a  murmur  scarcely  intel- 
ligible, was  my  name,  '  Madame  Armand,'  uttered  with 
a  sigh." 

44  She  repented,  during  her  sleep,  of  having  uttered 
this  bad  language  about  your  mother." 

44  So  I  believe ;  and  that  made  me  less  severe.  No 
doubt  she  desired,  through  a  miserable  vanity,  to  increase 
her  natural  insolence  in  her  companions'  eyes,  whilst, 
perhaps,  a  good  instinct  made  her  repent  in  her  sleep." 

44  And  did  she  evince  any  repentance  for  her  bad 
behaviour  next  day  ?  " 

44  Not  the  slightest,  but  conducted  herself  as  usual,  and 
was  coarse,  rude,  and  obstinate ;  but  I  assure  your  lady- 
ship that  nothing  disposes  us  more  to  pity  than  the 
observations  I  have  mentioned  to  you.  I  am  persuaded 
(I  may  deceive  myself,  perhaps)  that,  during  their 
sleep,  these  unfortunates  become  better,  or  rather  return 
to  themselves,  with  all  their  faults,  it  is  true,  but  also 
234 


ST.  LAZARE. 


with  certain  good  instincts,  no  longer  masked  by  the 
detestable  assumption  of  vice.  From  all  I  have  observed, 
I  am  led  to  believe  that  these  creatures  are  generally  less 
wicked  than  they  affect  to  be;  and,  acting  upon  this 
conviction,  I  have  often  attained  results  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  realise,  if  I  had  entirely  despaired  of 
them." 

Madame  d'Harville  could  not  conceal  her  surprise  at 
so  much  good  sense,  and  so  much  just  reasoning,  joined 
to  sentiments  of  humanity  so  noble  and  so  practical,  in 
an  obscure  inspectress  of  degraded  women. 

"  But  my  dear  madame,"  observed  Cl^mence,  "  you 
must  have  a  great  deal  of  courage,  and  much  strength 
of  mind,  not  to  be  repulsed  by  the  ungratefulness  of  the 
task,  which  must  so  very  seldom  reward  you  by  satis- 
factory results ! " 

"  The  consciousness  of  fulfilling  a  duty  sustains  and 
encourages,  and  sometimes  we  are  recompensed  by  happy 
discoveries  ;  now  and  then  we  find  some  rays  of  light  in 
hearts  which  have  hitherto  been  supposed  to  be  in  utter 
darkness." 

"  Yet,  madame,  persons  like  you  are  very  rarely  met 
with?" 

"  No,  I  assure  your  ladyship,  others  do  as  I  do,  with 
more  success  and  intelligence  than  I  have.  One  of  the 
inspectresses  of  the  other  division  of  St.  Lazare,  which 
is  occupied  by  females  charged  with  different  crimes, 
would  interest  you  much  more.  She  told  me  this  morn- 
ing of  the  arrival  of  a  young  girl  accused  of  infanticide. 
I  never  heard  anything  more  distressing.  The  father 
of  the  unhappy  girl,  a  hard-working,  honest  lapidary, 
has  gone  mad  with  grief  on  hearing  his  daughter's  shame. 
It  seems  that  nothing  could  be  more  frightful  than  the 
destitution  of  all  this  family,  who  lived  in  a  wretched 
garret  in  the  Rue  du  Temple." 

"  The  Rue  du  Temple  !  "  exclaimed  Madame  d'Harville, 
much  astonished;  "  what  is  the  workman's  name  ? " 
235 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  His  daughter's  name  is  Louise  Morel." 
"  'Tis  as  I  thought,  then !  " 

"  She  was  in  the  service  of  a  respectable  lawyer  named 
M.  Jacques  Ferrand." 

"  This  poor  family  has  been  recommended  to  me," 
said  Cle*mence,  blushing  ;  "  but  I  was  far  from  expecting 
to  see  it  bowed  down  by  this  fresh  and  terrible  blow. 
And  Louise  Morel  —  " 

"  Declares  her  innocence,  and  affirms  her  child  was 
born  dead ;  and  it  seems  as  if  hers  were  accents  of 
truth.  Since  your  ladyship  takes  an  interest  in  this 
family,  if  you  would  be  so  good  as  to  see  the  poor  girl, 
perhaps  this  mark  of  your  kindness  might  soothe  her 
despair,  which  they  tell  me  is  really  alarming." 

"  Certainly  I  will  see  her ;  then  I  shall  have  two  pro- 
te'ge'es  instead  of  one,  Louise  Morel  and  La  Goualeuse, 
for  all  you  tell  me  relative  to  this  poor  girl  interests  me 
excessively.  But  what  must  be  done  to  obtain  her 
liberty?  1  will  then  find  a  situation  for  her.  I  will 
take  care  of  her  in  future." 

"  With  your  connections,  madame,  it  will  be  very  easy 
for  you  to  obtain  her  liberty  the  day  after  to-morrow,  for 
it  is  at  the  discretion  of  the  Prefect  of  Police,  and  the 
application  of  a  person  of  consequence  would  be  decisive 
with  him.  But  I  have  wandered  from  the  observation 
which  I  made  on  the  slumber  of  La  Goualeuse  ;  and,  with 
reference  to  this,  I  must  confess  that  I  should  not  be 
astonished  if,  to  the  deeply  painful  feeling  of  her  first 
error,  there  is  added  some  other  grief  no  less  severe." 

"  What  mean  you,  madame  ? " 

"  Perhaps  I  am  deceived ;  but  I  should  not  be  aston- 
ished if  this  young  girl,  rescued  by  some  circumstance 
from  the  degradation  in  which  she  was  first  plunged,  has 
now  some  honest  love,  which  is  at  the  same  time  her 
happiness  and  her  torment." 

"  What  are  your  reasons  for  believing  this  ?  " 

"  The  determined  silence  which  she  keeps  as  to  where 
28G 


ST.  LAZARE. 


she  has  passed  the  three  months  which  followed  her 
departure  from  the  Cite*  makes  me  think  that  she  fears 
being  discovered  by  the  persons  with  whom  she  in  all 
probability  found  a  shelter." 
«  Why  should  she  fear  this  ?  " 

"  Because  then  she  would  have  to  own  to  a  previous 
life,  of  which  they  are  no  doubt  ignorant." 
"  True  ;  her  peasant's  dress." 

"  And  then  a  subsequent  circumstance  has  confirmed 
my  suspicions.  Yesterday  evening,  when  I  was  walking 
my  round  of  inspection  in  the  dormitory,  I  went  up  to 
La  Goualeuse's  bed.  She  was  in  a  deep  sleep,  and, 
unlike  her  companions,  her  features  were  calm  and  tran- 
quil. Her  long,  light  hair,  half  disengaged  from  their 
bands,  fell  in  profusion  down  her  neck  and  shoulders. 
Her  two  small  hands  were  clasped,  and  crossed  over  her 
bosom,  as  if  she  had  gone  to  sleep  whilst  praying.  I 
looked  for  some  moments  with  interest  at  her  lovely 
face,  when,  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  an  accent  at  once 
respectful,  sad,  and  impassioned,  she  uttered  a  name." 

"  And  that  name?" 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Madame  Armand  replied, 
gravely : 

"Although  I  consider  that  anything  learnt  during 
sleep  is  sacred,  yet  you  interest  yourself  so  generously 
in  this  unfortunate  girl,  madame,  that  I  will  confide 
this  name  to  your  secrecy.    It  was  Rodolph." 

"  Rodolph !  "  exclaimed  Madame  d'Harville,  thinking 
of  the  prince.  Then,  reflecting  that,  after  all,  his 
highness  the  Grand  Duke  of  Gerolstein  could  have 
no  connection  with  the  Rodolph  of  the  poor  Goualeuse, 
she  said  to  the  inspectress,  who  seemed  astonished  at 
her  exclamation : 

"The  name  has  surprised  me,  madame,  for,  by  a 
singular  chance,  it  is  that  of  a  relation  of  mine ;  but 
what  you  tell  me  of  La  Goualeuse  interests  me  more 
and  more.    Can  I  see  her  to-day  ?  now  —  directly  ?  " 
237 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Yes,  madame,  I  will  go,  as  you  wish  it,  and  ask  her ; 
I  can  also  learn  more  of  Louise  Morel,  who  is  in  the 
other  side  of  the  prison." 

"  I  shall,  indeed,  be  greatly  obliged  to  you,  madame," 
replied  Madame  d'Harville,  who  the  next  moment  was 
alone. 

"  How  strange  ! "  she  said.  "  I  cannot  account  for  the 
singular  impression  which  this  name  of  Rodolph  makes 
upon  me  !  I  am  really  quite  insane !  What  connec- 
tion can  there  be  between  him  and  such  a  creature?" 
Then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  the  marchioness  added, 
"  He  was  right ;  how  all  this  does  interest  me !  The 
mind,  the  heart,  expand  when  they  are  occupied  so 
nobly !  'Tis  as  he  said  ;  we  seem  to  participate  some- 
what in  the  power  of  Providence  when  we  aid  those  who 
deserve  it ;  and,  then,  these  excursions  into  a  world  of 
which  we  had  no  idea  are  so  attractive,  —  so  amusing,  as 
he  said  so  pleasantly  !  What  romance  could  give  me 
such  deep  feelings,  excite  my  curiosity  to  such  a  pitch  ? 
This  poor  Goualeuse,  for  instance,  has  inspired  me  with 
deep  pity,  after  all  I  have  heard  of  her ;  and  I  will 
blindly  follow  up  this  commiseration,  for  the  inspectress 
has  too  much  experience  to  be  deceived  with  respect 
to  our  prote'ge'e.  And  the  other  unhappy  girl,  —  the 
artisan's  daughter,  whom  the  prince  has  so  generously 
succoured  in  my  name  !  Poor  people  !  their  bitter  suf- 
fering has  served  as  a  pretext  to  save  me.  I  have 
escaped  shame,  perhaps  death,  by  a  hypocritical  false- 
hood. This  deceit  weighs  on  my  mind,  but  I  will  expiate 
my  fault  by  my  charity,  though  that  may  be  too  easy  a 
mode.  It  is  so  sweet  to  follow  Rodolph's  noble  advice  ! 
It  is  to  love  as  well  as  to  obey  him.  Oh,  I  feel  it  with 
rapture !  His  breath,  alone,  animates  and  fertilises  the 
new  existence  which  he  has  given  me  in  directing  me  to 
console  those  who  suffer.  I  experience  an  unalloyed 
delight  in  acting  but  as  he  directs,  in  having  no  ideas 
but  his ;  for  I  love  him,  —  ah,  yes,  I  love  him !  And  yet 
238 


ST.  LAZARE. 


he  shall  always  be  in  ignorance  of  this,  the  lasting- 
passion  of  my  life." 

Whilst  Madame  d'Harville  is  waiting  for  La  Goua- 
leuse,  we  will  conduct  the  reader  into  the  presence  of 
the  prisoners. 


239 


CHAPTER  X. 


MONT  SAINT -JEAN. 

It  was  just  two  o'clock  by  the  dial  of  the  prison  of 
St.  Lazare.  The  cold,  which  had  lasted  for  several' 
days,  had  been  succeeded  by  soft,  mild,  and  almost 
spring  weather ;  the  rays  of  the  sun  were  reflected  in  the 
water  of  the  large  square  basin,  with  its  stone  corners, 
formed  in  the  centre  of  a  courtyard  planted  with  trees, 
and  surrounded  by  dark,  high  walls  pierced  with  a  great 
many  iron-barred  windows.  Wooden  benches  were  fas- 
tened here  and  there  in  this  large  paved  enclosure,  which 
served  for  the  walking-place  of  the  prisoners.  The 
ringing  of  a  bell  announcing  the  hour  of  recreation,  the 
prisoners  came  in  throngs  by  a  thick  wicket-door  which 
was  opened  to  them.  These  women,  all  clad  alike,  wore 
black  skull-caps  and  long  loose  gowns  of  blue  woollen 
cloth,  fastened  around  the  waist  by  a  band  and  iron 
buckle.  There  were  there  two  hundred  prostitutes,  sen- 
tenced for  breach  of  the  particular  laws  which  control 
them  and  place  them  out  of  the  pale  of  the  common  law. 
At  first  sight  their  appearance  had  nothing  striking,  but, 
after  regarding  them  with  further  attention,  there  might 
be  detected  in  each  face  the  almost  ineffaceable  stigmas 
of  vice,  and  particularly  that  brutishness  which  igno- 
rance and  misery  invariably  engender.  "Whilst  contem- 
plating these  masses  of  lost  creatures,  we  cannot  help 
recollecting  with  sorrow  that  most  of  them  have  been 
pure  and  honest,  at  least  at  some  former  period.  We 
say  "  most  of  them,"  because  there  are  some  who  have 
been  corrupted,  vitiated,  depraved,  not  only  from  their 
240 


MONT  SAINT  -  JEAN. 


youth,  but  from  tenderest  infancy,  —  even  from  their 
very  birth,  if  we  may  say  so ;  and  we  shall  prove  it  as 
we  proceed. 

We  ask  ourselves,  then,  with  painful  curiosity,  what 
chain  of  fatal  causes  could  thus  debase  these  unhappy 
creatures,  who  have  known  shame  and  chastity  ?  There 
are  so  many  declivities,  alas,  which  verge  to  that  fall ! 
It  is  rarely  the  passion  of  the  depraved  for  depravity ; 
but  dissipation,  bad  example,  perverse  education,  and, 
above  all,  want,  which  lead  so  many  unfortunates  to 
infamy;  and  it  is  the  poor  classes  alone  who  pay  to 
civilisation  this  impost  on  soul  and  body. 

When  the  prisoners  came  into  the  yard,  running  and 
crying  out,  it  was  easy  to  discern  that  it  was  not  alone 
the  pleasure  of  leaving  their  work  that  made  them  so 
noisy.  After  having  hurried  forth  by  the  only  gate 
which  led  to  this  yard,  the  crowd  spread  out  and  made 
a  ring  around  a  misshapen  being,  whom  they  assailed  / 
with  shouts.  She  was  a  small  woman,  from  thirty-six  to 
forty  years  of  age  ;  short,  round-shouldered,  deformed, 
and  with  her  neck  buried  between  shoulders  of  unequal 
height.  They  had  snatched  off  her  black  cap,  and  her 
hair,  which  was  flaxen,  or  rather  a  pale  yellow,  coarse, 
matted,  and  mingled  with  gray,  fell  over  her  low  and 
stupid  features.  She  was  clad  in  a  blue  loose  gown, 
like  the  other  prisoners,  and  had  under  her  right  arm 
a  small  bundle,  wrapped  up  in  a  miserable,  ragged, 
checked  pocket-handkerchief.  With  her  left  elbow  she 
endeavoured  to  ward  off  the  blows  aimed  at  her.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  lamentably  ludicrous  than  the  visage 
of  this  unhappy  woman.  She  was  hideous  and  distorted 
in  figure,  with  projecting  features,  wrinkled,  tanned,  and 
dirty,  which  were  pierced  with  two  holes  for  nostrils, 
and  two  small,  red,  bloodshot  eyes.  By  turns  wrathful 
and  imploring,  she  scolded  and  entreated ;  but  they 
laughed  even  more  at  her  complaints  than  her  threats. 
241 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


This  woman  was  the  plaything  of  the  prisoners.  One 
thing  ought,  however,  to  have  protected  her  from  such 
ill-usage,  —  she  was  evidently  about  to  become  a  mother ; 
but  her  ugliness,  her  imbecility,  and  the  custom  they 
had  of  considering  her  as  a  victim  intended  for  common 
sport,  rendered  her  persecutors  implacable,  in  spite  of 
their  usual  respect  for  maternity. 

Amongst  the  fiercest  enemies  of  Mont  Saint-Jean 
(that  was  the  unhappy  wretch's  name),  La  Louve  was 
conspicuous.  La  Louve  was  a  strapping  girl  of  twenty, 
active,  and  powerfully  grown,  with  regular  features. 
Her  coarse  black  hair  was  varied  by  reddish  shades, 
whilst  her  blood  suffused  her  skin  with  its  hue ;  a  brown 
down  shaded  her  thin  lips ;  her  chestnut  eyebrows,  thick 
and  projecting,  were  united  over  her  large  and  fierce 
eyes.  There  was  something  violent,  savage,  and  brutal 
in  the  expression  of  this  woman's  physiognomy,  —  a  sort 
of  habitual  sneer,  which  curled  her  upper  lip  during  a 
fit  of  rage,  and,  exposing  her  white  and  wide-apart  teeth, 
accounted  for  her  name  of  La  Louve  (the  she-wolf). 
Yet  in  that  countenance  there  was  more  of  boldness  and 
insolence  than  cruelty ;  and,  in  a  word,  it  was  seen  that, 
rather  become  vicious  than  born  so,  this  woman  was  still 
susceptible  of  certain  good  impulses,  as  the  inspectress 
had  told  Madame  d'Harville. 

"  Alas !  alas !  What  have  I  done  ? "  exclaimed  Mont 
Saint- Jean,  struggling  in  the  midst  of  her  companions. 
"  Why  are  you  so  cruel  to  me  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  so  amusing." 

"  Because  you  are  only  fit  to  be  teased." 

"  It  is  your  business." 

"  Look  at  yourself,  and  you  will  see  that  you  have  no 
right  to  complain." 

"  But  you  know  well  enough  that  I  don't  complain  as 
long  as  I  can  help  it ;  I  bear  it  as  long  as  I  can." 

"  Well,  we'll  let  you  alone,  if  you  will  tell  us  why  you 
call  yourself  Mont  Saint-Jean." 

242 


MONT  SAINT -JEAN. 


"  Yes,  yes ;  come,  tell  us  all  that  directly." 

"  Why,  I've  told  you  a  hundred  times.  It  was  an  old 
soldier  that  I  loved  a  long  while  ago,  and  who  was  called 
so  because  he  was  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Mont  Saint- 
Jean  ;  so  I  took  his  name.  That's  it ;  now  are  you 
satisfied  ?  You  will  make  me  repeat  the  same  thing 
over,  and  over,  and  over ! " 

"  If  your  soldier  was  like  you,  he  was  a  beauty !  " 

"  I  suppose  he  was  in  the  Invalids  ? " 

"  The  remains  of  a  man  —  " 

"  How  many  glass  eyes  had  he  ? " 

"  And  wasn't  his  nose  of  block  tin  ? " 

"  He  must  have  been  short  of  two  arms  and  two  legs, 
besides  being  deaf  and  blind,  if  he  took  up  with  you." 

"  I  am  ugly,  —  a  monster,  I  know  that  as  well  as  you 
can  tell  me.  Say  what  you  like,  —  make  game  of  me,  if 
you  choose,  it's  all  one  to  me  ;  only  don't  beat  me,  that's 
all,  I  beg !  " 

"What  have  you  got  in  that  old  handkerchief ?"/ 
asked  La  Louve. 

"  Yes,  yes  !    What  is  it  ?  " 
"  Show  it  up  directly !  " 
"  Let's  see !  Let's  see ! " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  beg !  "  exclaimed  the  miserable  creature, 
squeezing  up  the  little  bundle  in  her  hands  with  all  her 
might. 

"  What !    Must  we  take  it  from  you  ?  " 
"  Yes,  snatch  it  from  her,  La  Louve  !  " 
"  Oh,  you  won't  be  so  wicked  ?    Let  it  go  !  Let  it  go, 
I  say ! " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Why,  it's  the  beginning  of  my  baby  linen ;  I  make 
it  with  the  old  bits  of  linen  which  no  one  wants,  and  I 
pick  up.    It's  nothing  to  you,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  baby  linen  of  Mont  Saint-Jean's  little  one ! 
That  must  be  a  rum  set  out !  " 

"  Let's  look  at  it." 

243 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


«  The  baby  clothes !    The  baby  clothes  ! " 
"  She  has  taken  measure  of  the  keeper's  little  dog,  no 
doubt." 

"  Here's  your  baby  clothes,"  cried  La  Louve,  snatch- 
ing the  bundle  from  Mont  Saint-Jean's  grasp. 

The  handkerchief,  already  torn,  was  now  rent  to 
tatters,  and  a  quantity  of  fragments  of  stuff  of  all 
colours,  and  old  pieces  of  linen  half  cut  out,  flew 
around  the  yard,  and  were  trampled  under  feet  by  the 
prisoners,  who  holloaed  and  laughed  louder  than  before. 

"  Here's  your  rags !  " 

"  Why,  it  is  a  ragpicker's  bag." 

"  Patterns  from  the  ragman's." 

«  What  a  shop  ! " 

"  And  to  sew  all  that  rubbish !  " 

"  Why,  there's  more  thread  than  stuff." 

"  What  nice  embroidery !  " 

"  Here,  pick  up  your  rags  and  tatters,  Mont  Saint-Jean." 

"  Oh,  how  wicked !  Oh,  how  cruel !  "  exclaimed  the 
poor  ill-used  creature,  running  in  every  direction  after 
the  pieces,  which  she  endeavoured  to  pick  up  in  spite  of 
pushes  and  blows.  "  I  never  did  anybody  any  harm," 
she  added,  weeping.  "  I. have  offered,  if  they  would  let 
me  alone,  to  do  anything  I  could  for  anybody,  to  give 
them  half  my  allowance,  although  I  am  always  so 
hungry ;  but,  no !  no !  it's  always  so.  What  can  I 
do  to  be  left  in  peace  ?  They  haven't  even  pity  of  a 
poor  woman  in  the  family  way.  They  are  more  cruel 
than  the  beasts.  Oh,  the  trouble  I  had  to  collect  these 
little  bits  of  linen !  How  else  can  I  make  the  clothes  for 
my  baby,  for  I  have  no  money  to  buy  them  with  ?  What 
harm  was  there  in  picking  up  what  nobody  else  wanted 
when  it  was  thrown  away  ? "  Then  Mont  Saint- J ean 
exclaimed  suddenly,  with  a  ray  of  hope,  "  Oh,  there  you 
are,  Goualeuse !  Now,  then,  I'm  safe ;  do  speak  to  them 
for  me ;  they  will  listen  to  you,  I  am  sure,  for  they  love 
you  as  much  as  they  hate  me." 

244 


MONT  SAINT -JEAN. 


La  Goualeuse  was  the  last  of  the  prisoners  who 
entered  the  enclosure. 

Fleur-de-Marie  wore  the  blue  woollen  gown  and  black 
skull-cap  of  the  prisoners ;  but  even  in  this  coarse  cos- 
tume she  was  still  charming.  Yet,  since  her  carrying 
off  from  the  farm  of  Bouqueval  (the  consequences  of 
which  circumstance  we  will  explain  hereafter),  her 
features  seemed  greatly  altered ;  her  pale  cheeks, 
formerly  tinged  with  a  slight  colour,  were  as  wan 
as  the  whiteness  of  alabaster ;  the  expression,  too,  of 
her  countenance  had  changed,  and  was  now  imprinted 
with  a  kind  of  dignified  grief.  Fleur-de-Marie  felt  that 
to  bear  courageously  the  painful  sacrifices  of  expiation  is 
almost  to  attain  restored  position. 

"  Ask  a  favour  for  me,  Goualeuse,"  said  poor  Mont 
Saint-Jean,  beseechingly,  to  the  young  girl ;  "  see  how 
they  are  flinging  about  the  yard  all  I  had  collected,  with 
so  much  trouble,  to  begin  my  baby  linen  for  my  child. 
What  good  can  it  do  them  ? " 

Fleur-de-Marie  did  not  say  a  word,  but  began  very 
actively  to  pick  up,  one  by  one,  from  under  $ie  women's 
feet,  all  the  rags  she  could  collect.  One  prisoner  ill- 
temperedly  kept  her  foot  on  a  sort  of  little  bed-gown 
of  coarse  woollen  cloth.  Fleur-de-Marie,  still  stooping, 
looked  up  at  the  woman,  and  said  to  her  in  a  sweet 
tone : 

"  I  beg  of  you  let  me  pick  it  up.  I  ask  it  in  the  name 
of  this  poor  woman  who  is  weeping." 

The  prisoner  removed  her  foot.  The  bed-gown  was 
rescued,  as  well  as  most  of  the  other  scraps,  which  La 
Goualeuse  acquired  piece  by  piece.  There  remained  to 
obtain  a  small  child's  cap,  which  two  prisoners  were 
struggling  for,  and  laughing  at.  Fleur-de-Marie  said 
to  them : 

"  Be  all  good,  pray  do.    Let  me  have  the  little  cap." 
"  Oh,  to  be  sure !  It's  for  a  harlequin  in  swaddling- 
clothes  this  cap  is  !    It  is  made  of  a  bit  of  gray  stuff, 
245 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


with  points  of  green  and  black  fustian,  and  lined  with 
a  bit  of  an  old  mattress  cover." 

The  description  was  exact,  and  was  hailed  with  loud 
and  long-continued  shoutings. 

"  Laugh  away,  but  let  me  have  it,"  said  Mont  Saint- 
Jean  ;  "  and  pray  do  not  drag  it  in  the  mud  as  you  have 
some  of  the  other  things.  I'm  sorry  you've  made  your 
hands  so  dirty  for  me,  Goualeuse,"  she  added,  in  a 
grateful  tone. 

"  Let  me  have  the  harlequin's  cap,"  said  La  Louve, 
who  obtained  possession  of  it,  and  waved  it  in  the  air  as 
a  trophy. 

"  Give  it  to  me,  I  entreat  you,"  said  Goualeuse. 

"  No  !   You  want  to  give  it  back  to  Mont  Saint-Jean." 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  worth  while,  it  is  such  a  rag." 

"  Mont  Saint-Jean  has  nothing  but  rags  to  dress  her 
child  in,  and  you  ought  to  have  pity  upon  her,  La  Louve," 
said  Fleur-de-Marie,  in  a  mournful  voice,  and  stretching 
out  her  hand  towards  the  cap. 

"  You  sha'n't  have  it ! "  answered  La  Louve,  in  a 
brutal  tone ;  "  must  everybody  always  give  way  to  you 
because  you  are  the  weakest  ?  You  come,  I  see,  to  abuse 
the  kindness  that  is  shown  to  you." 

"  But,"  said  La  Goualeuse,  with  a  smile  full  of  sweet- 
ness, "  where  would  be  the  merit  of  giving  up  to  me,  if 
I  were  the  stronger  of  the  two  ? " 

"No,  no ;  you  want  to  wheedle  me  over  with  your 
smooth,  canting  words ;  but  it  won't  do,  —  you  sha'n't 
have  it,  I  tell  you." 

"  Come,  come,  now,  La  Louve,  do  not  be  ill-natured." 

"  Let  me  alone  !    You  tire  me  to  death ! " 

"  Oh,  pray  do  ! " 

"  I  will  not !  " 

"  Yes,  do,  —  let  me  beg  of  you !  " 
"  Now,  don't  put  me  in  a  passion,"  exclaimed  La  Louve, 
thoroughly  irritated.    "  I  have  said  no,  and  I  mean  no." 
246 


MONT  SAINT  -  JEAN. 


"  Take  pity  on  the  poor  thing,  see  how  she  is  crying ! " 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?  So  much  the  worse  for  her ; 
she  is  our  pain-bearer"  (souffre  douleur). 

"  So  she  is,"  murmured  out  a  number  of  the  prisoners, 
instigated  by  the  example  of  La  Louve.  "  No,  no,  she 
ought  not  to  have  her  rags  back !  So  much  the  worse 
for  Mont  Saint- Jean." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  with  bitterness; 
"  it  is  so  much  the  worse  for  her  ;  she  is  your  pain-bearer, 
she  ought  to  submit  herself  to  your  pleasure,  —  her  tears 
and  sighs  amuse  and  divert  you !  —  and  you  must  have 
some  way  of  passing  your  time.  Were  you  to  kill  her 
on  the  spot,  she  would  have  no  right  to  say  anything. 
You  speak  truly,  La  Louve,  this  is  just  and  fair,  is  it  not  ? 
Here  is  a  poor,  weak,  defenceless  woman ;  alone  in  the 
midst  of  so  many,  she  is  quite  unable  to  defend  her- 
self, yet  you  all  combine  against  her !  Certainly  your 
behaviour  towards  her  is  most  just  and  generous  !  " 

"And  I  suppose  you  mean  to  say  we  are  all  a  parcel 
of  cowards  ? "  retorted  La  Louve,  carried  away  by  the 
violence  of  her  disposition  and  extreme  impatience  at 
anything  like  contradiction.  "  Answer  me,  do  you  call  us 
cowards,  eh  ?  Speak  out,  and  let  us  know  your  mean- 
ing," continued  she,  growing  more  and  more  incensed. 

A  murmur  of  displeasure  against  La  Goualeuse,  not 
unmixed  with  threats,  arose  from  the  assembled  crowd. 
The  offended  prisoners  thronged  around  her,  vociferating 
their  disapprobation,  forgetting,  or  remembering  but.  as 
a  fresh  cause  of  offence,  the  ascendency  she  had  until  the 
present  moment  exercised  over  them. 

"  She  calls  us  cowards,  you  see  !  " 

"  What  business  has  she  to  find  fault  with  us  ?  " 

"  Is  she  better  than  we  are,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  Ah,  we  have  all  been  too  kind  to  her  ! " 

"  And  now  she  wants  to'give  herself  fine  lady  airs,  and 
to  domineer  over  us !  If  we  choose  to  torment  Mont 
Saint-Jean,  what  need  has  she  to  interfere?" 

247  . 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Since  4t  has  come  to  this,  I  tell  you  what,  Mont 
Saint- Jean,  you  shall  fare  the  worse  for  it  for  the 
future." 

"Take  this  to  begin  with!"  said  one  of  the  most 
violent  of  the  party,  giving  her  a  blow. 

"  And  if  you  meddle  again  with  what  does  not  con- 
cern you,  La  Goualeuse,  we  will  serve  you  the  same." 

«  Yes,  that  we  will." 

"  But  that  is  not  all ! "  said  La  Louve.  "  La  Goua- 
leuse must  ask  our  pardon  for  having  called  us  cowards. 
She  must  and  she  shall !  If  we  don't  put  a  stop  to  her 
goings  on,  she  will  soon  leave  us  without  the  power  of 
saying  our  soul  is  our  own,  and  we  are  great  fools  not 
to  have  seen  this  sooner." 

"  Make  her  ask  our  pardon." 

"  On  her  knee." 

"  On  both  knees." 

"  Or  we  will  serve  her  precisely  the  same  as  we  did 
her  prote'gde,  Mont  Saint-Jean ! " 

"  Down  on  her  knees  !  Down  with  her !  " 
"  Lo  !  we  are  cowards,  are  we  ? " 
"  Dare  to  say  it  again !  " 

Fleur-de-Marie  allowed  this  tumult  to  pass  away,  ere 
she  replied  to  the  many  furious  voices  that  were  raging 
around  her.  Then,  casting  a  mild  and  melancholy  glance 
at  the  exasperated  crowd,  she  said  to  La  Louve,  who 
persisted  in  vociferating,  "  Will  you  dare  to  call  us 
cowards  again  ? " 

"  You  ?  Oh,  no,  not  you !  I  call  this  poor  woman,  whom 
you  have  so  roughly  treated,  whom  you  have  dragged 
through  the  mud,  and  whose  clothes  you  have  nearly 
torn  off,  a  coward.  Do  you  not  see  how  she  trembles, 
and  dares  not  even  look  at  you  ?  No,  no  !  I  say  again, 
'tis  she  who  is  a  coward,  for  being  thus  afraid  of  you." 

Fleur-de-Marie  had  touched  the  right  chord ;  in  vain 
might  she  have  appealed  to  their  sense  of  justice  and 
duty,  in  order  to  allay  their  bitter  irritation  against  poor 
248 


MONT  SAINT  -  JEAN. 


Mont  Saint-Jean ;  the  stupid  or  brutalised  minds  of  the 
prisoners  would  alike  have  been  inaccessible  to  her  plead- 
ings;  but,  by  addressing  herself  to  that  sentiment  of 
generosity,  which  is  never  wholly  extinct,  even  in  the 
most  depraved  characters,  she  kindled  a  spark  of  pity, 
that  required  but  skilful  management  to  fan  into  a  flame 
of  commiseration,  instead  of  hatred  and  violence.  La 
Louve,  amid  their  continued  murmurings  against  La 
Goualeuse  and  her  protegee,  felt,  and  confessed,  that 
their  conduct  had.  been  both  unwomanly  and  cowardly. 

Fleur-de-Marie  would  not  carry  her  first  triumph  too 
far.    She  contented  herself  with  merely  saying: 

"  Surely,  if  this  poor  creature,  whom  you  call  yours, 
to  tease,  to  torment,  to  ill-use, — in  fact,  your  souffre 
douleur,  —  be  not  worthy  of  your  pity,  her  infant  has 
done  nothing  to  offend  you.  Did  you  forget,  when  strik- 
ing the  mother,  that  the  unborn  babe  might  suffer  from 
your  blows  ?  And  when  she  besought  your  mercy,  'twas 
not  for  herself,  but  her  child.  When  she  craves  of  you 
a  morsel  of  bread,  if,  indeed,  you  have  it  to  spare,  'tis 
not  to  satisfy  her  own  hunger  she  begs  it,  but  that  her 
infant  may  live ;  and  when,  with  streaming  eyes,  she 
implored  of  you  to  spare  the  few  rags  she  had  with 
so  much  difficulty  collected  together,  it  arose  from  a 
mother's  love  for  that  unseen  treasure  her  heart  so  loves 
and  prizes.  This  poor  little  patchwork  cap,  and  the 
pieces  of  old  mattresses  she  has  so  awkwardly  sewed 
together,  no  doubt  appear  to  you  fit  objects  of  mirth; 
but,  for  my  own  part,  I  feel  far  more  inclined  to  cry 
than  to  laugh  at  seeing  the  poor  creature's  instinctive 
attempts  to  provide  for  her  babe.  So,  if  you  laugh  at 
Mont  Saint- Jean,  let  me  come  in  for  my  share  of  your 
ridicule." 

Not  the  faintest  attempt  at  a  smile  appeared  on  any 
countenance,  and  La  Louve  continued,  with  fixed  gaze, 
to  contemplate  the  little  cap  she  still  held  in  her  hand. 

"  I  know  very  well,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  drying  her 
249 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


eyes  with  the  back  of  her  white  and  delicate  hand, — "  I 
know  very  well  that  you  are  not  really  ill-natured  or 
cruel,  and  that  you  merely  torment  Mont  Saint-Jean 
from  thoughtlessness.  But  consider  that  she  and  her 
infant  are  one.  If  she  held  it  in  her  arms,  not  only 
would  you  carefully  avoid  doing  it  the  least  injury,  but 
I  am  quite  sure,  if  it  were  cold,  you  would  even  take 
from  your  own  garments  to  cover  it.  Would  not  you, 
La  Louve  ?  Oh,  I  know  you  would,  every  one  of 
you !  " 

"  To  be  sure  we  would,  —  every  one  pities  a  tender 
baby." 

"  That  is  quite  natural." 

"  And  if  it  cried  with  hunger,  you  would  take  the 
bread  from  your  own  mouth  to  feed  it  with.  Would 
not  you,  La  Louve  ? " 

"  That  I  would,  and  willingly,  too !  I  am  not  more 
hard-hearted  than  other  people  ! " 

"  Nor  more  are  we  ! " 

"  A  poor,  helpless,  little  creature ! " 

"Who  could  have  the  heart  to  think  of  harming  it  ?" 

"  They  must  be. downright  monsters ! " 

"  Perfect  savages ! " 

"  Worse  than  wild  beasts ! " 

"  I  told  you  so,"  resumed  Fleur-de-Marie.  "  I  said 
you  were  not  intentionally  unkind ;  and  you  have  proved 
that  you  are  good  and  pitying  towards  Mont  Saint-Jean. 
The  fault  consisted  in  your  not  reflecting  that,  although 
her  child  is  yet  unborn,  it  is  still  liable  to  harm  from 
any  mischief  that  befalls  its  mother.  That  is  all  the 
wrong  you  have  done." 

"  All  the  wrong  we  have  done ! "  exclaimed  La 
Louve,  much  excited.  "  But  I  say  it  is  not  all.  You 
were  right,  La  Goualeuse.  We  acted  like  a  set  of 
cowards ;  and  you  alone  deserve  to  be  called  courageous, 
because  you  did  not  fear  to  tell  us  so,  or  shrink  from  us 
after  you  had  told  us.  It  is  nonsense  to  seek  to  deny 
250 


MONT  SAINT -JEAN. 


the  fact  that  you  are  not  a  creature  like  us,  —  it  is  no 
use  trying  to  persuade  ourselves  you  are  like  such  beings 
as  we  are,  so  we  may  as  well  give  it  up.  I  don't  like  to 
own  it,  but  it  is  so ;  and  I  may  just  as  well  confess  it. 
Just  now,  when  we  were  all  in  the  wrong,  you  had  cour- 
age enough,  not  only  to  refuse  to  join  us,  but  to  tell  us 
of  our  fault.1' 

"That  is  true  enough;  and  the  fair-faced  girl  must 
have  had  a  pretty  stock  of  courage  to  tell  us  the  truth 
so  plainly  to  our  faces." 

"  But,  bless  you,  these  blue-eyed  people,  who  look  so 
soft  and  gentle,  if  once  they  are  worked  up  —  " 

"  They  become  courageous  as  lions." 

"  Poor  Mont  Saint- Jean !  She  has  good  reason  to  be 
thankful  to  her  !  " 

"  What  she  says  is  true  enough.  We  could  not  injure 
the  mother  without  harming  the  child  also." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that." 

«  Nor  I  either." 

"  But  you  see  La  Goualeuse  did,  —  she  never  forgets 
anything." 

"  The  idea  of  hurting  an  infant !  horrible  !  Is  it  not  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  there  is  not  one  of  us  would  do  it  for  any- 
thing that  could  be  offered  us." 

Nothing  is  more  variable  than  popular  passion,  or 
more  abrupt  than  its  rapid  transition  from  bad  to  good, 
and  even  the  reverse.  The  simple  yet  touching  argu- 
ments of  Fleur-de-Marie  had  effected  a  powerful  reaction 
in  favour  of  Mont  Saint-Jean,  who  shed  tears  of  deep 
joy.  Every  heart  seemed  moved ;  for,  as  we  have  al- 
ready said,  the  womanly  feelings  of  the  prisoners  had 
been  awakened,  and  they  now  felt  a  solicitude  for  the 
unhappy  creature  in  proportion  as  they  had  formerly 
held  her  in  dislike  and  contempt.  All  at  once,  La 
Louve,  violent  and  impetuous  in  all  her  actions,  twisted 
the  little  cap  she  held  in  her  hand  into  a  sort  of  purse, 
and  feeling  in  her  pocket  brought  out  twenty  sous,  which 
251 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


she  threw  into  the  purse ;  then  presenting  it  to  her 
companions,  exclaimed : 

"  Here  is  my  twenty  sous  towards  buying  baby  clothes 
for  Mont  Saint-Jean's  child.  We  will  cut  them  out  and 
make  them  ourselves,  in  order  that  the  work  may  cost 
nothing." 

"  Oh,  yes,  let  us." 

"  To  be  sure,  —  let  us  all  join !  " 

"  I  will  for  one." 

"  What  a  capital  idea  !  " 

"  Poor  creature  !  " 

"  Though  she  is  so  frightfully  ugly,  yet  she  has  a 
mother's  feelings  the  same  as  another." 

"  La  Goualeuse  was  right.  It  is  really  enough  to 
make  one  cry  one's  eyes  out,  to  see  what  a  wretched 
collection  of  rags  the  poor  creature  has  scraped  together 
for  her  baby." 

"  Well,  I'll  give  thirty  sous." 

"  And  I  ten." 

"  I'll  give  twenty  sous." 

"  I've  only  got  four  sous,  but  I'll  give  them." 

"  I  have  no  money  at  all ;  but  I'll  sell  my  allowance 
for  to-morrow,  and  put  whatever  any  one  will  give  for  it 
into  the  collection.  Who'll  buy  my  to-morrow's  rations  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  said  La  Louve.  "  So,  here  I  put  in  ten  sous 
for  you  ;  but  you  shall  keep  your  rations.  And  now, 
Mont  Saint -Jean  shall  have  baby  clothes  fit  for  a 
princess." 

To  express  the  joy  and  gratitude  of  Mont  Saint-Jean 
would  be  wholly  impossible.  The  most  intense  delight 
and  happiness  illumined  her  countenance,  and  rendered 
even  her  usual  hideous  features  interesting.  Fleur-de- 
Marie  was  almost  as  happy,  though  compelled  to  say, 
when  La  Louve  handed  to  her  the  collecting-cap : 

"  I  am  very  sorry  I  have  not  a  single  sou  of  money, 
but  I  will  work  as  long  as  you  please  at  making  the 
clothes." 

252 


MONT  SAINT -JEAN. 


"  Oh,  my  dear  heavenly  angel ! "  cried  Mont  Saint- 
Jean,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  La  Goua- 
leuse,  and  striving  to  kiss  her  hand.  "  What  have  I 
ever  done  to  merit  such  goodness  on  your  part,  or  the 
charity  of  these  kind  ladies  ?  Gracious  Father !  Do 
I  hear  aright  ?  Baby  things !  and  all  nice  and  comfort- 
able for  my  child !  A  real,  proper  set  of  baby  clothes ! 
Everything  I  can  require  !  Who  would  ever  have  thought 
of  such  a  thing  ?  I  am  sure  I  never  should.  I  shall  lose 
my  senses  with  joy !  Only  to  think  that  a  poor,  miser- 
able wretch  like  myself,  the  make-game  of  everybody, 
should  all  at  once,  just  because  you  spoke  a  few  soft, 
sweet  words  out  of  that  heavenly  mouth,  have  such 
wonderful  blessings  !  See  how  your  words  have  changed 
those  who  meant  to  harm  me,  but  who  now  pity  me  and 
are  my  friends ;  and  I  feel  as  though  I  could  never  thank 
them  enough,  or  express  my  gratitude  !  Oh,  how  very, 
very  kind  of  them !  How  wrong  of  me  to  be  offended 
and  angry  with  what  they  said!  How  stupid  and  un- 
grateful I  must  have  been  not  to  perceive  that  they  were 
only  playing  with  me,  —  that  they  had  no  intention  of 
harming  me.  Oh,  no !  It  was  all  meant  for  my  good. 
Here  is  a  proof  of  it.  Oh,  for  the  future,  if  they  like  to 
knock  me  about  ever  so,  I  will  not  so  much  as  cry  out ! 
Oh,  I  was  too  impatient  when  I  complained  before ;  but 
I  will  make  up  for  it  next  time  ! " 

"  Eighty-eight  francs  seven  sous ! "  said  La  Louve, 
finishing  her  reckoning  of  the  collection  gathered  by 
handing  about  the  little  bonnet.  "  Who  will  be  treas- 
urer till  we  lay  out  the  money  ?  We  must  not  entrust 
it  to  Mont  Saint-Jean,  she  is  too  simple." 

"  Let  La  Goualeuse  take  charge  of  it ! "  cried  a 
unanimous  burst  of  voices. 

"  No,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie  ;  "  the  best  way  will  be  to 
beg  of  the  inspectress,  Madame  Armand,  to  take  charge 
of  the  sum  collected,  and  to  buy  the  necessary  articles 
for  Mont  Saint-Jean's  confinement ;  and  then,  —  who 
253 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


knows  ?  —  perhaps  Madame  Armand  may  take  notice 
of  the  good  action  you  have  performed,  and  report  itT 
so  as  to  be  the  means  of  shortening  the  imprisonment 
of  all  whose  names  are  mentioned  as  being  concerned 
in  it.  Tell  me,  La  Louve,"  added  Fleur-de-Marie,  tak- 
ing her  companion  by  the  arm,  "  are  you  not  better 
satisfied  with  yourself  than  you  were  just  now,  when 
you  were  throwing  about  all  Mont  Saint-Jean's  poor 
baby's  things?" 

La  Louve  did  not  immediately  reply.  To  the  generous 
excitement  which  a  few  moments  before  animated  her 
features,  succeeded  a  sort  of  half  savage  air  of  defiance. 
Unable  to  comprehend  the  cause  of  this  sudden  change, 
Fleur-de-Marie  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 

"  Come  hero,  La  Goualeuse,"  said  La  Louve  at  last, 
with  a  gloomy  tone ;  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Then  abruptly  quitting  the  other  prisoners,  she  led 
Fleur-de-Marie  to  a  reservoir  of  water,  surrounded  by 
a  stone  coping,  which  had  been  hollowed  out  in  the 
midst  of  an  adjoining  meadow.  Near  the  water  was 
a  bench,  also  of  stone,  on  which  La  Louve  and  La  Gou- 
aleuse placed  themselves,  and  were  thus,  in  a  manner, 
beyond  the  observation  or  hearing  of  their  companions. 


254 


CHAPTER  XI. 


LA  L0T7VE  AND  LA  GOUALETJSE. 

We  firmly  believe  in  the  influence  of  certain  master 
minds  so  far  sympathising  with  the  masses,  so  powerful 
over  them  as  to  impose  on  them  the  bias  of  good  or  evil. 
Some,  bold,  enthusiastic,  indomitable,  addressing  them- 
selves to  the  worst  passions,  will  rouse  them,  as  the 
storm  raises  the  foam  of  the  sea  ;  but,  like  all  tempests, 
these  are  as  ephemeral  as  they  are  furious  ;  to  these  ter- 
rible effervescences  will  succeed  the  sullen  reversion  of 
sadness  and  restlessness,  which  will  obtain  supremacy 
over  the  most  miserable  conditions.  The  reaction  of 
violence  is  always  severe ;  the  waking  after  an  excess  is 
always  painful. 

La  Louve,  if  you  will,  personifies  this  fatal  influence. 

Other  organisations,  more  rare,  because  their  gener- 
ous instincts  must  be  fertilised  by  intelligence,  and  with 
them  the  mind  is  on  an  equality  with  the  heart,  —  oth- 
ers, we  say,  will  inspire  good,  as  well  as  some  inspire 
evil.  Their  wholesome  influence  will  gently  penetrate 
into  the  soul,  as  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun  penetrate  the 
body  with  invigorating  heat,  as  the  arid  and  burning 
earth  imbibes  the  fresh  and  grateful  dew  of  night. 

Fleur-de-Alarie,  if  you  will,  personifies  this  benevolent 
influence. 

The  reaction  to  good  is  not  so  sudden  as  the  reaction 
to  evil ;  its  effects  are  more  protracted.  It  is  something 
delicious,  inexplicable,  which  gradually  extends  itself, 

255 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


calms  and  soothes  the  most  hardened  heart,  and  gives 
it  the  feeling  of  inexpressible  serenity.  Unfortunately 
the  charm  ceases. 

After  having  seen  celestial  brightness,  ill-disposed  per- 
sons fall  back  into  the  darkness  of  their  habitual  life  ; 
the  recollections  of  sweet  emotions  which  have  for  a 
moment  surprised  them  are  gradually  effaced.  Still 
they  sometimes  seek  vaguely  to  recall  them,  even  as  we 
try  to  murmur  out  the  songs  with  which  our  happy 
infancy  was  cradled.  Thanks  to  the  good  action  with 
which  she  had  inspired  them,  the  companions  of  La  Gou- 
aleuse  had  tasted  of  the  passing  sweetness  of  these  feel- 
ings, in  which  even  La  Louve  had  participated ;  but  this 
latter,  for  reasons  we  shall  describe  hereafter,  remained 
a  shorter  time  than  the  other  prisoners  under  this  benev- 
olent feeling.  If  we  are  surprised  to  hear  and  see  Fleur- 
de-Marie,  hitherto  so  passively,  so  painfully  resigned,  act 
and  speak  with  courage  and  authority,  it  was  because 
the  noble  precepts  she  had  imbibed  during  her  residence 
at  the  farm  at  Bouqueval  had  rapidly  developed  the  rare 
qualities  of  her  admirable  disposition.  Fleur-de-Marie 
understood  that  it  is  not  sufficient  to  bewail  the  irrepar- 
able past,  and  that  it  is  only  in  doing  or  inspiring  good 
that  a  reinstatement  can  be  hoped  for. 

We  have  said  that  La  Louve  was  sitting  on  a  wooden 
bench,  beside  La  Goualeuse.  The  close  proximity  of 
these  two  young  girls  offered  a  singular  contrast. 

The  pale  rays  of  a  winter  sun  were  shed  over  them  ; 
the  pure  sky  was  speckled  in  places  with  small,  white, 
and  fleecy  clouds  ;  some  birds,  enlivened  by  the  warmth 
of  the  temperature,  were  warbling  in  the  black  branches 
of  the  large  chestnut-trees  in  the  yard  ;  two  or  three 
sparrows,  more  bold  than  their  fellows,  came  and  drank 
in  a  small  rivulet  formed  by  the  overflow  of  the  basin  ; 
the  green  moss  covered  the  stones  of  the  fountain,  and 
between  their  joints,  here  and  there,  were  tufts  of  grass 
256 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


and  some  small  creepers,  spared  by  the  frost.  This 
description  of  a  prison-basin  may  seem  puerile ;  but 
Meur-de-Marie  did  not  lose  one  of  the  details,  but  with 
her  eyes  fixed  mournfully  on  the  little  verdant  corner, 
and  on  this  limpid  water  in  which  the  moving  whiteness 
of  the  clouds  over  the  azure  of  the  heavens  was  reflected, 
in  which  the  golden  rays  of  a  lovely  sun  broke  with 
beautiful  lustre,  she  thought  with  a  sigh  of  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  Nature  which  she  loved,  which  she  ad- 
mired so  poetically,  and  of  which  she  was  still  deprived. 

"  What  did  you  wish  to  say  to  me  ?  "  asked  La  Goua- 
leuse  of  her  companion,  who,  seated  beside  her,  was 
gloomy  and  silent. 

"We  must  have  an  explanation,"  said  La  Louve, 
sternly;  "things  cannot  go  on  as  they  are." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  La  Louve." 

"  Just  now,  in  the  yard,  referring  to  Mont  Saint- Jean, 
I  said  to  myself,  '  I  won't  give  way  any  more  to  La 
Goualeuse,'  and  yet  I  do  give  way  now." 

«But  —  " 

"  But  I  tell  you  it  cannot  continue  so." 

"  In  what  have  I  offended  you,  La  Louve  ?" 

"Why,  I  am  not  the  same  person  I  was  when  you 
came  here ;  no,  I  have  neither  courage,  strength,  nor 
boldness." 

Then  suddenly  checking  herself,  La  Louve  pulled  up 
the  sleeve  of  her  gown,  and  showing  La  Goualeuse  her 
white  arm,  powerful,  and  covered  with  black  down,  she 
showed  her,  on  the  upper  part  of  it,  an  indelible  tattoo- 
ing, representing  a  blue  dagger  half  plunged  in  a  red 
heart ;  over  this  emblem  were  these  words : 

MORT  AUX  LACHES! 
MARTIAL 

p.  L.  v.  (pour  la  vie.) 
(death  to  cowards  ! 

MARTIAL 
FOR  LIFE  !  ) 

257 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


"  Do  you  see  that  ?  "  asked  La  Louve. 

"  Yes ;  and  it  is  so  shocking,  it  quite  frightens  me," 
said  La  Goualeuse,  turning  away  her  head. 

"When  Martial,  my  lover,  wrote,  with  a  red-hot 
needle,  these  words  on  my  arm,  '  Death  to  Cowards ! '  he 
thought  me  brave ;  if  he  knew  my  behaviour  for  the  last 
three  days,  he  would  stick  his  knife  in  my  body,  as  this 
dagger  is  driven  into  this  heart,  —  and  he  would  be  right, 
for  he  wrote  here,  '  Death  to  Cowards ! '  and  I  am  a 
coward." 

"  What  have  you  done  that  is  cowardly  ?  " 
"  Everything." 

"  Do  you  regret  the  good  resolution  you  made  just 
now?" 
«  Yes." 

"  I  cannot  believe  you." 

"I  say  I  do  regret  it,  —  for  it  is  another  proof  of 
what  you  can  do  with  all  of  us.  Didn't  you  understand 
what  Mont  Saint-Jean  meant  when  she  went  on  her 
knees  to  thank  you  ?  " 

«  What  did  she  say?" 

"  She  said,  speaking  of  you,  that  with  nothing  you 
turned  us  from  evil  to  good.  I  could  have  throttled  her 
when  she  said  it,  for,  to  our  shame,  it  was  true.  Yes, 
in  no  time  you  change  us  from  black  to  white.  We 
listen  to  you,  —  give  way  to  our  first  feelings,  and  are 
your  dupes,  as  we  were  just  now." 

"  My  dupe !  for  having  generously  succoured  this  poor 
woman  ? " 

"  Oh,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  all  that,"  exclaimed 
La  Louve,  with  rage.  "  I  have  never  till  now  stooped  my 
head  before  a  breathing  soul.  La  Louve  is  my  name, 
and  I  am  well  named :  more  than  one  woman  bears  my 
marks,  and  more  than  one  man,  too  ;  and  it  shall  never 
be  said  that  a  little  chit  like  you  can  place  me  beneath 
her  feet." 

"  Me !  and  in  what  way  ? " 

258 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


"  How  do  I  know !    You  come  here,  and  first  begin 
by  insulting  rue." 
"Insult  you?" 

"  Yes,  —  you  ask  who'll  have  your  bread.    I  first  say 

—  I.  Mont  Saint-Jean  did  not  ask  for  it  till  afterwards, 
and  yet  you  give  her  the  preference.  Enraged  at  that, 
I  rushed  at  you  with  my  uplifted  knife  —  " 

"  And  I  said  to  you,  '  Kill  me,  if  you  like,  but  do  not 
let  me  linger  long,'  and  that  is  all." 

"  That  is  all  ?  Yes,  that  is  all.  And  yet  these 
words  made  me  drop  my  knife,  —  made  me  —  ask  your 
pardon,  —  yes,  pardon  of  you  who  insulted  me.  Is  that 
natural  ?  Why,  when  I  recovered  my  senses,  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself.  The  evening  you  came  here,  when 
you  were  on  your  knees  to  say  your  prayers,  —  why, 
instead  of  making  game  of  you,  and  setting  all  the 
dormitory  on  you,  did  I  say,  4  Let  her  alone ;  she  prays, 
and  has  a  right  to  pray  ? '  Then  the  next  day,  why 
were  I  and  all  the  others  ashamed  to  dress  ourselves 
before  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  La  Louve." 

"  Indeed  ! "  replied  the  violent  creature,  with  irony. 
"  You  don't  know !  Why,  no  doubt,  it  is  because,  as  we 
have  all  of  us  said,  jokingly,  that  you  are  of  a  different 
sort  from  us.    You  think  so,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  said  that  I  thought  so." 

"  No,  you  have  not  said  so ;  but  you  behave  just  as  if 
it  were  so." 

"  I  beg  of  you  to  listen  to  me." 

"  No,  I  have  been  already  too  foolish  to  listen  to  you 

—  to  look  at  you.  Till  now,  I  never  envied  any  one. 
Well,  two  or  three  times  I  have  been  surprised  at 
myself.  Am  I  growing  a  fool  or  a  coward  ?  I  have 
found  myself  envious  of  your  face,  so  like  the  Holy 
Virgin's;  of  your  gentle  and  mournful  look.  Yes,  I 
have  even  been  envious  of  your  chestnut  hair  and  your 
blue  eyes.    I,  who  detest  fair  women,  because  I  am  dark 

259 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


myself,  wish  to  resemble  you.  I !  La  Louve !  I !  Why, 
it  is  but  eight  days  since,  and  I  would  have  marked 
any  one  who  dared  but  say  so.  Yet  it  is  not  your  lot 
that  would  tempt  one,  for  you  are  as  full  of  grief  as  a 
Magdalene.    Is  it  natural,  I  say,  eh  ? " 

"  How  can  I  account  to  you  for  the  impression  I  make 
upon  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  know  well  enough  what  you  do,  though 
you  look  as  if  you  were  too  delicate  to  be  touched." 

"  What  bad  design  can  you  suppose  me  capable  of  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  It  is  because  I  do  not  understand 
anything  of  all  this  that  I  mistrust  you.  Another 
thing,  too :  until  now  I  have  always  been  merry  or 
passionate,  and  never  thoughtful,  but  you  —  you  have 
made  me  thoughtful.  Yes,  there  are  words  which 
you  utter,  that,  in  spite  of  myself,  have  shaken  my 
very  heart,  and  made  me  think  of  all  sorts  of  sad 
things." 

"  I  am  sorry,  La  Louve,  if  I  ever  made  you  sad ;  but 
I  do  not  remember  ever  having  said  anything  —  " 

"  Oh,"  cried  La  Louve,  interrupting  her  companion 
with  angry  impatience,  "  what  you  do  is  sometimes  as 
affecting  as  what  you  say  !    You  are  so  clever  !  " 

"  Do  not  be  angry,  La  Louve,  but  explain  what  you 
mean." 

"  Yesterday,  in  the  workroom,  I  noticed  you,  —  you 
bent  your  head  over  the  work  you  were  sewing,  and 
a  large  tear  fell  on  your  hand.  You  looked  at  it  for  a 
minute,  and  then  you  lifted  your  hand  to  your  lips,  as  if 
to  kiss  and  wipe  it  away.    Is  this  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  La  Goualeuse,  blushing. 

"  There  was  nothing  in  this ;  but  at  the  moment  you 
looked  so  unhappy,  so  very  miserable,  that  I  felt  my  very 
heart  turned,  as  it  were,  inside  out.  Tell  me,  do  you  find 
this  amusing  ?  Why,  now,  I  have  been  as  hard  as  flint 
on  all  occasions.  No  one  ever  saw  me  shed  a  tear,  —  and 
yet,  only  looking  at  your  chit  face,  I  felt  my  heart  sink 
260 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


basely  within  me!  Yes,  for  this  is  baseness,  —  pure 
cowardice ;  and  the  proof  is,  that  for  three  days  I  have 
not  dared  to  write  to  Martial,  my  lover,  my  conscience 
is  so  bad.  Yes,  being  with  you  has  enfeebled  my  mind, 
and  this  must  be  put  an  end  to,  —  there's  enough  of 
it;  this  will  else  do  me  mischief,  I  am  sure.  I  wish 
to  remain  as  I  am,  and  not  become  a  joke  and  despised 
thing  to  myself." 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,  La  Louve  ? " 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  bad  acquaintance  for  me ;  and  if  it 
continues,  why,  in  a  fortnight's  time,  instead  of  calling 
me  the  She-wolf,  they  would  call  me  the  Ewe  !  But  no, 
thank,  ye,  it  sha'n't  come  to  that  yet,  —  Martial  would 
kill  me ;  and  so,  to  make  an  end  of  this  matter,  I  will 
break  up  all  acquaintance  with  you ;  and  that  I  may  be 
quite  separated  from  you,  I  shall  ask  to  be  put  in  another 
room.  If  they  refuse  me,  I  will  do  some  piece  of  mis- 
chief to  put  me  in  wind  again,  and  that  I  may  be  sent  to 
the  black-hole  for  the  remainder  of  my  time  here.  And 
this  was  what  I  had  to  say  to  you,  Goualeuse." 

Timidly  taking  her  companion's  hand,  who  looked  at 
her  with  gloomy  distrust,  Fleur-de-Marie  said : 

"  I  am  sure,  La  Louve,  that  you  take  an  interest  in 
me,  not  because  you  are  cowardly,  but  because  you  are 
generous-hearted.  Brave  hearts  are  the  only  ones  which 
sympathise  in  the  misfortunes  of  others." 

"  There  is  neither  generosity  nor  courage  in  it,"  said 
La  Louve,  coarsely ;  "  it  is  downright  cowardice.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  choose  to  have  it  said  that  I  sympathise 
with  any  one.    It  ain't  true." 

"Then  I  will  not  say  so,  La  Louve;  but  since  you 
have  taken  an  interest  in  me,  you  will  let  me  feel 
grateful  to  you,  will  you  not  ? " 

«  Oh,  if  you  like  !  This  evening,  I  shall  be  in  another 
room  than  yours,  or  alone  in  the  dark  hole,  and  I  shall 
soon  be  out,  thank  God  !  " 

"  And  where  shall  you  go  when  you  leave  here  ?  " 
261 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Why,  home,  to  be  sure,  to  the  Rue  Pierre-Lescat. 
I  have  my  furniture  there." 

"  And  Martial  ? "  said  La  Goualeuse,  who  hoped  to 
keep  up  the  conversation  with  La  Louve,  by  interesting 
her  in  what  she  most  cared  for ;  "  shall  you  be  glad  to 
see  him  again  ? " 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes ! "  she  replied,  with  a  passionate  air. 
"  When  I  was  taken  up,  he  was  just  recovering  from 
an  illness,  —  a  fever  which  he  had  from  being  always 
in  the  water.  For  seventeen  days  and  seventeen  nights 
I  never  left  him  for  a  moment,  and  I  sold  half  my  kit  in 
order  to  pay  the  doctor,  the  drags  and  all.  I  may  boast 
of  that,  and  I  do  boast  of  it.  If  my  man  lives,  it  is  I  who 
saved  him.  Yesterday  I  burnt  another  candle  for  him. 
It  is  folly,  —  a  mere  whim,  —  but  yet  it  is  all  one,  and 
we  have  sometimes  very  good  effects  in  burning  candles 
for  a  person's  recovery." 

"  And,  Martial,  where  is  he  now  ?  What  is  he 
doing?" 

"  He  is  still  on  an  island,  near  the  bridge,  at 
Asnieres." 

«  On  an  island  ? " 

"  Yes,  he  is  settled  there,  with  his  family,  in  a  lone 
house.  He  is  always  at  loggerheads  with  the  persons 
who  protect  the  fishing ;  but  when  he  is  once  in  his  boat, 
with  his  double-barrelled  gun,  why,  they  who  approach 
him  had  better  look  out ! "  said  La  Louve,  proudly. 

"  What,  then,  is  his  occupation  ?  " 

"  He  poaches  in  the  night ;  and  then,  as  he  is  as  bold 
as  a  lion,  when  some  coward  wishes  to  get  up  a  quarrel 
with  another,  why,  he  will  lend  his  hand." 

"  Where  did  you  first  know  Martial  ?  " 

"  At  Paris.  He  wished  to  be  a  locksmith,  —  a  capital 
business,  —  always  with  red-hot  iron  and  fire  around  you ; 
dangerous  you  may  suppose,  but  then  that  suited  him. 
But  he,  like  me,  was  badly  disposed,  and  could  not  agree 
with  his  master ;  and  then,  too,  they  were  always  throw- 
262 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


ing  his  father  and  one  of  his  brothers  in  his  teeth.  But 
that's  nothing  to  you.  The  end  of  it  was,  that  he  re- 
turned to  his  mother,  who  is  a  very  devil  in  sin  and 
wickedness,  and  began  to  poach  on  the  river.  He  cannot 
see  me  at  Paris,  and  in  the  daytime  I  go  to  see  him  in 
his  island,  the  He  du  Ravageur,  near  AsniSres.  It's  very 
near ;  though  if  it  were  farther  off,  I  would  go  all  the 
same,  even  if  I  went  on  my  hands  and  knees,  or  swam 
all  the  way,  for  I  can  swim  like  an  otter." 

"  You  must  be  very  happy  to  go  into  the  country," 
said  La  Goualeuse,  with  a  sigh ;  "  especially  if  you  are 
as  fond  as  I  am  of  walking  in  the  fields." 

"  I  prefer  walking  in  the  woods  and  large  forests  with 
my  man." 

"  In  the  forests  !    Oh,  ain't  you  afraid  ?  " 

"  Afraid !  Oh,  yes,  afraid !  I  should  think  so ! 
What  can  a  she-wolf  fear  ?  The  thicker  and  more 
lonely  the  forest,  the  better  I  should  like  it.  A  lone 
hut  in  which  I  should  live  with  Martial  as  a  poacher, 
to  go  with  him  at  night  to  set  the  snares  for  the  game, 
and  then,  if  the  keepers  came  to  apprehend  us,  to  fire 
at  them,  both  of  us,  whilst  my  man  and  I  were  hid  in 
underwood, — ah,  that  would  indeed  be  happiness  !  " 

"  Then  you  have  lived  in  the  woods,  La  Louve  ? " 

"  Never." 

"  Who  gave  you  these  ideas,  then  ?  " 
"  Martial." 

"  How  did  he  acquire  them  ?" 

"  He  was  a  poacher  in  the  forest  of  Rambouillet ;  and 
it  is  not  a  year  ago  that  he  was  supposed  to  have  fired 
at  a  keeper  who  had  fired  at  him,  the  vagabond  !  How- 
ever, there  was  no  proof  of  the  fact,  but  Martial  was 
obliged  to  leave  that  part  of  the  country.  Then  he 
came  to  Paris  to  try  and  be  a  locksmith,  and  then  I  first 
saw  him.  As  he  was  too  wild  to  be  on  good  terms  with 
his  master,  he  preferred  returning  to  his  relations  at 
Asnieres,  and  poach  in  the  river;  it  is  not  so  slavish. 
263 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Still  he  always  regrets  the  woods,  and  some  day  or 
other  will  return  to  them.  From  his  talking  to  me  of 
poaching  and  forests,  he  has  crammed  my  head  with 
these  ideas,  and  I  now  think  that  is  the  life  I  was 
born  for.  But  it  is  always  so.  What  your  man  likes, 
you  like.  If  Martial  had  been  a  thief,  I  should  have 
been  a  thief.  When  one  has  a  man,  we  like  to  be  like 
him." 

"  And  where  are  your  own  relations,  La  Louve  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  Is  it  long  since  you  saw  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  they  are  dead  or  alive." 

"  Were  they,  then,  so  very  unkind  to  you  ? " 

"  Neither  kind  nor  unkind.  I  was  about  eleven  years 
old,  I  think,  when  my  mother  went  off  with  a  soldier. 
My  father,  who  was  a  day-labourer,  brought  home  a 
mistress  with  him  into  our  garret,  and  two  boys  she 
had,  —  one  six,  and  the  other  my  own  age.  She  was  a 
barrow-woman.  She  went  on  pretty  well  at  first,  but 
after  a  time,  whilst  she  was  out  with  her  fruit,  a  fish- 
woman  used  to  come  and  drink  with  my  father,  and 
this  the  apple-woman  found  out.  Then,  from  this  time, 
every  evening,  we  had  such  battles  and  rows  in  the 
house  that  I  and  the  two  boys  were  half  dead  with 
fright.  We  all  three  slept  together,  for  we  had  but  one 
room.  One  day,  —  it  was  her  birthday,  Sainte  Madeleine's 
fete,  —  and  she  scolded  him  because  he  had  not  con- 
gratulated her  on  it.  From  one  word  another  arose, 
and  my  father  concluded  by  breaking  her  head  with  the 
handle  of  the  broom.  I  really  thought  he  had  killed 
her.  She  fell  like  a  lump  of  lead,  but  la  mere  Madeleine 
was  hard-lived,  and  hard-headed  also.  After  that  she 
returned  my  father  with  interest  all  the  blows  he  had 
given  her,  and  once  bit  him  so  savagely  in  the  hand 
that  the  piece  of  flesh  remained  between  her  teeth.  I 
must  say  that  these  contests  were  what  we  may  call  the 
grandes  eaux  at  Versailles.  On  common  and  working- 
2G4 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


days  the  skirmishes  were  of  a  lighter  sort,  —  there  were 
bruises,  but  no  blood." 

"  Was  this  woman  unkind  to  you  ? " 

"  Mere  Madeleine  ?  No ;  on  the  contrary.  She  was 
a  little  hasty,  but,  otherwise,  a  good  sort  of  woman 
enough.  But  at  last  my  father  got  tired,  and  left  her 
and  the  little  furniture  we  had.  He  came  out  of  Bur- 
gundy, and  most  probably  returned  to  his  own  country. 
I  was  fifteen  or  sixteen  at  this  time." 

"  And  were  you  still  with  the  old  mistress  of  your 
father?" 

"  Where  else  should  I  be  ?  Then  she  took  up  with  a 
tiler,  who  came  to  lodge  with  us.  Of  the  two  boys  of 
MSre  Madeleine,  one,  the  eldest,  was  drowned  at  the 
lie  des  Cygnes,  and  the  other  went  apprentice  to  a 
carpenter." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  with  this  woman  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  helped  to  draw  her  barrow,  made  the  soup, 
and  carried  her  man  his  dinner ;  and  when  he  came 
home  drunk,  which  happened  oftener  than  was  his  turn, 
I  helped  Meire  Madeleine  to  keep  him  in  order,  for  we 
still  lived  in  the  same  apartment.  He  was  as  vicious 
as  a  sandy-haired  donkey,  v;la.en  he  was  tipsy,  and  tried 
to  kill  us.  Once,  if  we  had  not  snatched  his  axe  from 
him,  he  would  certainly  have  murdered  us  both.  M£re 
Madeleine  had  a  cut  on  the  shoulder,  which  bled  till  the 
room  looked  like  a  slaughter-house." 

"  And  how  did  you  become  —  what  —  we  —  are  ? " 
said  Fleur-de-Marie,  hesitatingly. 

"  Why,  little  Charley,  Madeleine's  son,  who  was  after- 
wards drowned  at  the  lie  des  Cygnes,  was  my  first  lover, 
almost  from  the  time  when  he,  his  mother,  and  his 
brother,  came  to  lodge  with  us  when  we  were  but  mere 
children ;  after  him  the  tiler  was  my  lover,  who  threat- 
ened else  to  turn  me  out-of-doors.  I  was  afraid  that 
Mere  Madeleine  would  also  send  me  away  if  she  dis- 
covered anything.  She  did,  however;  but  as  she  was 
265 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


really  a  good  creature,  she  said,  '  As  it  is  so,  and  you 
are  sixteen  years  old,  and  fit  for  nothing,  for  you  are  too 
self-willed  to  take  a  situation  or  learn  a  business,  you 
shall  go  with  me  and  be  inscribed  in  the  police-books ; 
as  you  have  no  relations,  I  will  answer  for  you,  as  I 
brought  you  up,  as  one  may  say ;  and  that  will  give  you 
a  position  authorised  by  the  government,  and  you  will 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  be  merry  and  dress  smart.  I 
shall  have  no  uneasiness  about  you,  and  you  will  no 
longer  be  a  charge  to  me.  What  do  you  say  to  it,  my 
girl  ? '  '  Why,  I  think  indeed  you  are  right,'  was  my 
answer ;  1 1  had  not  thought  of  that.'  Well,  we  went 
to  the  Bureau  des  Mceurs.  She  answered  for  me,  in  the 
usual  way,  and  from  that  time  I  was  inscrite.  I  met 
Mere  Madeleine  a  year  afterwards.  I  was  drinking  with 
my  man,  and  we  asked  her  to  join  us,  and  she  told  us 
that  the  tiler  had  been  sentenced  to  the  galleys. 
Since  then  I  have  never  seen  her,  but  some  one,  I  don't 
remember  who,  declared  that  she  had  been  seen  at  the 
Morgue  three  months  ago.  If  it  were  true,  really  so 
much  the  worse,  for  M&re  Madeleine  was  a  good  sort  of 
woman,  — -  her  heart  was  in  her  hand,  and  she  had  no 
more  gall  than  a  pigeon." 

Fleur-de-Marie,  though  plunged  young  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  corruption,  had  subsequently  breathed  so  pure 
an  air  that  she  experienced  a  deeply  painful  sensation 
at  the  horrid  recital  of  La  Louve.  And  if  we  have  had 
the  sad  courage  to  make  it,  it  has  been  because  all  the 
world  should  know  that,  hideous  as  it  is,  it  is  still 
a  thousand  times  less  revolting  than  other  countless 
realities. 

Ignorance  and  misery  often  conduct  the  lower  classes 
to  these  fearful  degradations,  human  and  social. 

Yes ;  there  is  a  crowd  of  hovels  and  dens,  where 
children  and  adults,  girls  and  boys,  legitimate  children 
and  bastards,  lying  pell-mell  on  the  same  mattress,  have 
continually  before  their  eyes  these  infamous  examples 
266 


LA  LOUYE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


of  drunkenness,  violence,  debauch,  and  murder.  Yes, 
and  too  frequently  unnatural  crimes  at  the  tenderest  age 
add  to  this  accumulation  of  horrors. 

The  rich  may  shroud  their  vices  in  shadow  and  mys- 
tery, and  respect  the  sanctity  of  the  domestic  hearth, 
but  the  most  honest  artisans,  occupying  nearly  always  a 
single  chamber  with  their  family,  are  compelled,  from 
want  of  beds  and  space,  to  make  their  children  sleep 
together,  sons  and  daughters,  close  to  themselves,  hus- 
bands and  wives. 

If  we  shudder  at  the  fatal  consequences  of  such  neces- 
sity almost  inevitably  imposed  on  poor,  but  honest 
artisans,  what  must  it  be  with  workpeople  depraved 
by  ignorance  or  misconduct  ?  What  fearful  examples 
do  they  not  present  to  unhappy  children,  abandoned,  or 
rather  excited,  from  their  tenderest  youth  to  every 
brutal  impulse  and  animal  propensity  ?  Have  they  even 
the  idea  of  what  is  right,  decent,  and  modest  ?  Must 
they  not  be  as  strange  to  social  laws  as  the  savages  of 
the  New  World  ?  Poor  creatures  !  Corrupted  at  their 
very  birth,  who  in  the  prisons,  whither  their  wanderings 
and  idleness  often  lead  them,  are  already  stigmatised  by 
the  coarse  and  terrible  metaphor,  "  Graines  de  Bagne  " 
(Seeds  of  the  Gaol)  !  and  the  metaphor  is  a  correct 
one.  This  sinister  prediction  is  almost  invariably  ac- 
complished :  the  Galleys  or  the  Bridewell,  each  sex 
has  its  destiny. 

We  do  mot  intend  here  to  justify  any  profligacy.  Let 
us  only  compare  the  voluntary  degradation  of  a  female 
carefully  educated  in  the  bosom  of  a  wealthy  family, 
which  has  set  her  none  but  the  most  virtuous  examples. 
Let  us  compare,  we  say,  this  degradation  with  that  of  La 
Louve,  a  creature,  as  it  were,  reared  in  vice,  by  vice, 
and  for  vice,  and  to  whom  is  pointed  out,  not  without 
reason,  prostitution  as  a  condition  protected  by  the  gov- 
ernment !  This  is  true.  There  is  a  bureau  where  she 
is  registered,  certificated,  and  signs  her  name.  A  bureau 
.  /  -267 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


where  a  mother  has  a  right  to  authorise  the  prostitution 
of  her  daughter ;  a  husband  the  prostitution  of  his  wife. 
This  place  is  termed  the  "  Bureau  des  Moeurs "  (the 
Office  of  Manners).  Must  not  society  have  a  vice  most 
deeply  rooted,  incurable  in  the  place  of  the  laws  which 
regulate  marriage,  when  power,  —  yes,  power,  —  that 
grave  and  moral  abstraction,  is  obliged,  not  only  to 
tolerate,  but  to  regulate,  to  legalise,  to  protect,  to  render 
it  less  injurious  and  dangerous,  this  sale  of  body  and 
soul ;  which,  multiplied  by  the  unbridled  appetites  of 
an  immense  population,  acquires  daily  an  almost  incal- 
culable amount. 

Goualeuse,  repressing  the  emotion  which  this  sad 
confession  of  her  companion  had  made  in  her,  said  to 
her,  timidly : 

"  Listen  to  me  without  being  angry." 

"  Well,  what  have  you  to  say  ?  I  think  I  have  gos- 
siped enough ;  but  it  is  no  matter,  as  it  is  the  last  time 
we  shall  tall:  together." 

"  Are  you  happy,  La  Louve  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Does  the  life  you  lead  make  you  happy  ?  " 

"  Here,  —  at  St.  Lazare  ?  " 

"  No ;  when  you  are  at  home  and  free." 

"  Yes,  I  am  happy." 

"  Always  ?  " 

"  Always." 

"  You  would  not  change  your  life  for  any  other  ?  " 
"  For  any  other  ?    What  —  what  other  life  can  there 
be  for  me  ?  " 

"  Tell  me,  La  Louve,"  continued  Fleur-de-Marie,  after 
a  moment's  silence,  "  don't  you  sometimes  like  to  build 
castles  in  the  air  ?    It  is  so  amusing  in  prison." 

"  Castles  in  the  air !    About  what  ?  " 

"  About  Martial." 

"  About  my  man  ?  " 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


«  Yes." 

"  Ma  foil    I  never  built  any." 

"  Let  me  build  one  for  you  and  Martial." 

44  Bah !    What's  the  use  of  it  ? " 

"  To  pass  away  time." 

"  Well,  let's  have  your  castle  in  the  air." 

44  Well,  then,  only  imagine  that  a  lucky  chance,  such 
as  sometimes  occurs,  brings  you  in  contact  with  a  person 
who  says,  4  Forsaken  by  your  father  and  mother,  your 
infancy  was  surrounded  by  such  bad  examples  that 
you  must  be  pitied,  as  much  as  blamed,  for  having 
become  — ' " 

44  Become  what  ? " 

44  What  you  and  I  have  become,"  replied  Goualeuse, 
in  a  soft  voice ;  and  then  she  continued,  "  Suppose, 
then,  that  this  person  were  to  say  to  you,  4  You  love 
Martial ;  he  loves  you.  Do  you  and  he  cease  to  lead  an 
improper  life,  —  instead  of  being  his  mistress,  become 
his  wife.'" 

La  Louve  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

44  Do  you  think  he  would  have  me  for  his  wife  ?  " 

44  Except  poaching,  he  has  never  committed  any  guilty 
act,  has  he  ?  " 

44  No ;  he  is  a  poacher  in  the  river,  as  he  was  in  the 
woods,  and  he  is  right.  Why,  now,  ain't  fish  like  game, 
for  those  to  have  who  can  catch  them  ?  Where  do  they 
bear  the  proprietor's  mark  ?  " 

44  Well,  suppose  that,  having  given  up  the  dangerous 
trade  of  marauding  on  the  river,  he  desires  to  become 
an  honest  man ;  suppose  he  inspires,  by  the  frankness  of 
his  good  resolutions,  so  much  confidence  in  an  unknown 
benefactor  that  he  gives  him  a  situation,  —  let  us  see, 
our  castle  is  in  the  air,  —  gives  him  a  situation  —  say  as 
gamekeeper,  for  instance.  Why,  I  should  suppose  that, 
as  he  had  been  a  poacher,  nothing  could  better  suit  his 
taste ;  it  is  the  same  occupation,  but  in  the  right  way." 

44  Yes,  ma  foi !  it  would  be  still  to  live  in  the  woods." 
269 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Only  he  would  not  have  the  situation  but  on  condi- 
tion that  he  would  marry  you,  and  take  you  with  him." 
"  I  go  with  Martial  ?  " 

«  Yes ;  why,  you  said  you  should  be  so  happy  to  live 
together  in  the  depths  of  the  forest.  Shouldn't  you 
prefer,  instead  of  the  miserable  hut  of  the  poacher,  in 
which  you  would  hide  like  guilty  creatures,  to  have  a 
neat  little  cottage,  which  you  would  take  care  of  as  the 
active  and  hard-working  housekeeper  ?  " 

"  You  are  making  game  of  me.    Can  this  be  possible  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  what  may  happen  ?  But  it's  only  a 
castle  in  the  air." 

"  Ah,  if  it's  only  that,  all  very  well !  " 

"  La  Louve,  I  think  that  I  already  see  you  established 
in  your  little  home  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  with  your 
husband  and  two  or  three  children.  Children,  —  what 
happiness !    Are  they  not  ?  " 

"  The  children  of  my  man  ! "  exclaimed  La  Louve, 
with  intense  eagerness.  "  Ah,  yes !  They  would  be 
dearly  loved,  —  they  would !  " 

"  How  they  would  keep  you  company  in  your  solitude ! 
And,  then,  when  they  grew  up  they  would  be  able  to 
render  you  great  service :  the  youngest  would  pick  up 
the  dead  branches  for  fuel ;  the  eldest  would  go  into  the 
grass  of  the  forest  to  watch  a  cow  or  two,  which  they 
would  give  you  as  a  reward  for  your  husband's  activity, 
for  as  he  had  been  a  poacher  he  would  make  a  better 
keeper." 

"  To  be  sure ;  that's  true  enough.  But  really  your 
castles  in  the  air  are  very  amusing.    Go  on,  Goualeuse." 

"  They  would  be  very  much  satisfied  with  your  hus- 
band, and  you  would  have  some  allowances  from  your 
master,  a  poultry-yard,  a  garden  ;  and,  in  fact,  you  would 
have  to  work  very  hard,  La  Louve,  from  morning  till 
night." 

"  Oh,  if  that  were  all,  if  I  once  had  my  good  man  near 
me,  I  should  not  be  afraid  of  work !  I  have  stout  arms." 
270 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


"  And  you  would  have  plenty  to  employ  them,  I  will 
answer  for  that.  There  is  so  much  to  do,  —  so  much  to 
do !  There  is  the  stable  to  clean,  the  meals  to  get 
ready,  the  clothes  to  mend  ;  to-day  is  washing  day,  next 
day  there's  the  bread  to  bake,  or  perhaps  the  house  to 
clean  from  top  to  bottom ;  and,  then,  the  other  keepers 
would  say,  '  There  is  no  such  manager  as  Martial's  wife ; 
from  the  cellar  to  the  garret,  in  her  house,  it  is  a  pattern 
of  cleanliness,  and  the  children  are  taken  such  care  of ! 
But  then  she  is  so  very  industrious,  Madame  Martial.' " 

"  Really  though,  La  Goualeuse,  is  it  true  ?  I  should 
call  myself  Madame  Martial,"  said  La  Louve,  with  a  sort 
of  pride,  —  "  Madame  Martial ! " 

"  Which  is  better  than  being  called  La  Louve,  —  is  it 
not?" 

"  Pardieu  !  Why,  there's  no  doubt  but  I  should  rather 
be  called  by  my  man's  name  than  the  name  of  a  wild 
beast ;  but  —  bah !  —  bah !  louve  I  was  born,  louve  I  shall 
die!" 

"  Who  knows  ?  Who  can  say  ?  Not  to  shrink  from 
a  life  that  is  hard,  but  honest,  will  ensure  success.  So, 
then,  work  would  not  frighten  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly  not !  It  is  not  a  husband  and  four  or 
five  brats  to  take  care  of  that  would  give  me  any  trouble !  " 

"  But  then  it  would  not  be  all  work ;  there  are 
moments  for  rest.  In  the  winter  evenings,  when  the 
children  were  put  to  bed,  and  your  husband  smoked  his 
pipe  whilst  he  was  cleaning  his  gun  or  caressing  his  dogs, 
you  would  have  a  little  leisure." 

"Leisure,  —  sit  with  my  arms  crossed  before  me! 
Ma  foil  No,  I  would  rather  mend  the  linen,  by  the  side 
of  the  fire  in  the  evening.  That  is  not  a  very  hard  job, 
and  in  winter  the  days  are  so  short." 

As  Fleur-de-Marie  proceeded,  La  Louve  forgot  more 
and  more  of  the  present  for  the  dreams  of  the  future,  as 
deeply  interested  as  La  Goualeuse  had  been  before  her, 
when  Rodolph  had  talked  to  her  of  the  rustic  delights  of 
271 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


the  Bouqueval  farm.  La  Louve  did  not  attempt  to  con- 
ceal the  wild  tastes  with  which  her  lover  had  inspired 
her.  Remembering  the  deep  and  wholesome  impression 
which  she  had  experienced  from  the  smiling  picture  of 
Rodolph  in  relation  to  a  country  life,  Fleur-de-Marie  was 
desirous  of  trying  the  same  means  of  action  on  La  Louve, 
thinking,  with  reason,  that,  if  her  companion  was  so  far 
affected  at  the  sketch  of  a  rude,  poor,  and  solitary  life, 
as  to  desire  ardently  such  an  existence,  she  merited 
interest  and  pity.  Delighted  to  see  her  companion  listen 
to  her  with  attention,  La  Goualeuse  continued,  smiling : 

"And  then  you  see,  Madame  Martial,  —  let  me  call 
you  so,  —  what  does  it  matter  —  " 

"  Quite  the  contrary  ;  it  natters  me."  Then  La  Louve 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and,  smiling,  also  added,  "  What 
folly  to  play  at  madame  !  Are  we  children  ?  Well,  it's 
all  the  same  ;  go  on,  —  it's  quite  amusing.  You  said  —  " 

"  I  was  saying,  Madame  Martial,  that  in  speaking  of 
your  life,  the  winter  in  the  thickest  of  the  woods,  we 
were  only  alluding  to  the  worst  of  the  seasons." 

"  Ma  foi  !  No,  that  is  not  the  worst.  To  hear  the  wind 
whistle  all  night  in  the  forest,  and  the  wolves  howl  from 
time  to  time  far  off,  very  far  off,  —  I  shouldn't  tire  of 
that;  provided  I  was  at  the  fireside  with  my  man  and 
my  children,  or  even  quite  alone,  if  my  man  was  going 
his  rounds.  Ah,  I  am  not  afraid  of  a  gun!  If  I  had 
my  children  to  defend,  I  could  do  that,  —  the  wolf  would 
guard  her  cubs  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  can  well  believe  you !  You  are  very  brave  — 
you  are  ;  but  I  am  a  coward.  I  prefer  spring  to  the 
winter,  when  the  leaves  are  green,  when  the  pretty  wild 
flowers  bloom,  and  they  smell  so  sweet,  so  sweet  that  the 
air  is  quite  scented  ;  and  then  your  children  would  roll 
about  so  merrily  in  the  fresh  grass ;  and  then  the  forest 
would  be  so  thick  that  you  could  hardly  see  your  house 
in  the  midst  of  the  foliage,  —  I  can  fancy  that  I  see  it 
now.  In  front  of  the  house  is  a  vine  full  of  leaves,  which 
272 


LA  LOUYE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


your  husband  has  planted,  and  which  shades  the  bank 
of  turf  where  he  sleeps  during  the  noonday  heat,  whilst 
you  are  going  backwards  and  forwards  desiring  the  chil- 
dren not  to  wake  their  father.  I  don't  know  whether 
you  have  remarked  it,  but  in  the  heat  of  summer  about 
midday  there  is  in  the  woods  as  deep  silence  as  at 
midnight,  you  don't  hear  the  leaves  shake,  nor  the  birds 
sing." 

"  Yes,  that's  true,"  replied  La  Louve,  almost  me- 
chanically, who  became  more  and  more  forgetful  of  the 
reality,  and  almost  believed  she  saw  before  her  the  smil- 
ing pictures  which  the  poetical  imagination  of  Fleur- 
de-Marie,  so  instinctively  amorous  of  the  beauties  of 
nature,  presented  before  her. 

Delighted  at  the  deep  attention  which  her  companion 
lent  her,  La  Goualeuse  continued,  allowing  herself  to  be 
drawn  on  by  the  charm  of  the  thoughts  which  she  called 
up: 

"  There  is  one  thing  which  I  love  almost  as  well  as  the 
silence  of  the  woods,  and  that  is  the  noise  of  the  heavy 
drops  of  rain  falling  on  the  leaves ;  do  you  like  that,  too  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !    I  am  very  fond  of  a  summer  shower." 

"  So  am  I ;  and  when  the  trees,  the  moss,  and  the 
grass,  are  all  moistened,  what  a  delightfully  fresh  odour 
they  give  out !  And  then,  how  the  sun,  as  it  passes  over 
the  trees,  makes  all  the  little  drops  of  water  glisten  as 
they  hang  from  the  leaves !  Have  you  ever  noticed  that  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  remember  it  now  because  you  tell  me  of  it. 
Yet,  how  droll  all  this  is  !  But,  Goualeuse,  you  talk  so 
well  that  one  seems  to  see  everything,  —  to  see  every- 
thing just  as  you  talk  ;  and  then,  I  really  do  not  know 
how  to  explain  it  all.  But  now,  what  you  say  seems 
good,  it  is  quite  pleasant,  —  just  like  the  rain  we  were 
talking  of." 

"  Oh,  don't  suppose  that  we  are  the  only  creatures 
who  love  a  summer  shower  !    The  dear  little  birds,  how 
delighted  they  are  !  How  they  shake  their  feathers,  whilst 
273 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


they  warble  so  joyously ;  not  more  joyously,  though, 
than  your  children,  —  your  children  as  free,  and  gay, 
and  light-hearted  as  they  !  And  then,  look  !  as  the  day 
declines  the  youngest  children  run  across  the  wood  to 
meet  the  elder,  who  brings  back  the  two  heifers  from 
pasture,  for  they  have  heard  the  tinkling  of  the  bell  in 
the  distance ! " 

"  Yes,  Goualeuse,  and  I  think  I  see  the  smallest  and 
boldest,  whom  his  brother  has  put  astride  on  the  back  of 
one  of  the  cows." 

"  And  one  would  say  that  the  poor  animal  knows 
what  burden  she  bears,  she  steps  so  carefully.  But  it  is 
supper-time ;  your  eldest  child,  whilst  he  has  been  tend- 
ing the  cows  at  pasture,  has  amused  himself  with 
gathering  for  you  a  basket  of  beautiful  strawberries, 
which  he  has  brought  quite  fresh  under  a  thick  covering 
of  wild  violets." 

"  Strawberries  and  violets,  —  ah,  what  a  lovely  smell 
they  have  !  But  where  the  deuce  did  you  find  all  these 
ideas,  La  Goualeuse  ? " 

"  In  the  woods,  where  the  strawberries  ripen  and  the 
violets  blow,  you  have  only  to  look  and  gather  them  — 
But  let  us  go  on  with  our  housekeeping.  It  is  night,  and 
you  must  milk  your  heifers,  prepare  your  supper  under 
the  shelter  of  the  vine,  for  you  hear  your  husband's  dogs 
bark,  and  then  their  master's  voice,  who,  tired  as  he  is, 
comes  home  singing,  —  and  who  could  not  sing  when  on 
a  fine  summer's  eve  with  cheerful  heart  you  return  to  the 
house  where  a  good  wife  and  five  children  are  waiting 
for  you  ?  —  eh,  Madame  Martial  ? " 

"  True,  true ;  one  could  not  but  sing,"  replied  La 
Louve,  becoming  more  and  more  thoughtful. 

"  Unless  one  weeps  for  joy,"  continued  Fleur-de-Marie, 
herself  much  touched,  "  and  such  tears  are  as  sweet  as 
songs.  And  then,  when  night  has  completely  come, 
what  a  pleasure  to  sit  in  the  arbour  and  enjoy  the  calm- 
ness of  a  fine  evening,  to  breathe  the  sweet  odour  of  the 
274 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


forest,  to  hear  the  prattle  of  the  children,  to  look  at  the 
stars,  then  the  heart  is  so  full,  —  so  full  that  it  must 
pour  out  its  prayer ;  it  must  thank  him  to  whom  we  are 
indebted  for  the  freshness  of  the  evening,  the  sweet  scent 
of  the  woods,  the  gentle  brightness  of  the  starry  sky ! 
After  this  thanksgiving  or  this  prayer,  we  go  to  sleep 
tranquilly  till  the  next  day,  and  then  again  thank  our 
Creator.  And  this  poor,  hard-working,  but  calm  and 
honest  life,  is  the  same  each  and  every  day." 

"Every  day!"  repeated  La  Louve,  with  her  head 
drooping  on  her  chest,  her  look  fixed,  her  breast  op- 
pressed, "  for  it  is  true  the  good  God  is  good  to  give  us 
wherewithal  to  live  upon,  and  to  make  us  happy  with  so 
little." 

"  Well,  tell  me  now,"  continued  Pleur-de-Marie,  gently, 
— "tell  me,  ought  not  he  to  be  blessed,  after  God,  who 
should  give  you  this  peaceable  and  laborious  life,  instead 
of  the  wretched  existence  you  lead  in  the  mud  of  the 
streets  of  Paris?" 

This  word  Paris  suddenly  recalled  La  Louve  to  reality. 

A  strange  phenemenon  had  taken  place  in  the  mind 
of  this  creature. 

The  simple  painting  of  a  humble  and  rude  condition 
—  the  mere  recital  by  turns  —  lighted  up  by  the  soft 
rays  from  the  domestic  hearth,  gilded  by  some  joyful 
sunbeams,  refreshed  by  the  breeze  of  the  great  woods, 
or  perfumed  by  the  odour  of  wild  flowers,  —  this  narra- 
tive had  made  on  La  Louve  a  more  profound  or  more 
sensible  impression  than  could  an  exhortation  of  the 
most  pious  morality  have  effected. 

In  truth,  in  proportion  as  Fleur-de-Marie  spoke,  La 
Louve  had  longed  to  be,  and  meant  to  be,  an  indefatiga- 
ble manager,  a  worthy  wife,  an  affectionate  and  devoted 
mother. 

To  inspire,  even  for  an  instant,  a  violent,  immoral, 
and  degraded  woman  with  a  love  of  home,  respect  for 
duty,  a  taste  for  labour,  and  gratitude  towards  her 
275 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


Creator;  and  that,  by  only  promising  her  what  God 
gives  to  all,  the  sun,  the  sky,  and  the  depths  of  the 
forest,  —  what  society  owes  to  those  who  lack  a  roof  and 
a  loaf,  —  was,  indeed,  a  glorious  triumph  for  Fleur- 
de-Marie  !  Could  the  most  severe  moralist  —  the  most 
overpowering  preacher  —  have  obtained  more  in  threat- 
ening, in  their  monotonous  and  menacing  orations,  all 
human  vengeances  —  all  divine  thunders  ? 

The  painful  anger  with  which  La  Louve  was  possessed 
when  she  returned  to  the  reality,  after  having  allowed 
herself  to  be  charmed  by  the  new  and  wholesome  reverie 
in  which,  for  the  first  time,  Fleur-de-Marie  had  plunged 
her,  proved  the  influence  of  her  words  on  her  unfortu- 
nate companion.  The  more  bitter  were  La  Louve's 
regrets  when  she  fell  back  from  this  consoling  delusion 
to  the  horrors  of  her  real  position,  the  greater  was  La 
Goualeuse's  triumph.  After  a  moment's  silence  and 
reflection,  La  Louve  raised  her  head  suddenly,  passed 
her  hand  over  her  brow,  and  rose  threatening  and  angry. 

"  See,  see !  I  had  reason  to  mistrust  you,  and  to 
desire  not  to  listen  to  you,  because  it  would  turn  to  ill 
for  me !  Why  did  you  talk  thus  to  me  ?  Why  make  a 
jest  of  me  ?  Why  mock  me  ?  And  because  I  have  been 
so  weak  as  to  say  to  you  that  I  should  like  to  live  in 
the  depths  of  a  forest  with  my  man.  Who  are  you, 
then,  that  you  should  make  a  fool  of  me  in  this  way  ? 
You,  miserable  girl,  don't  know  what  you  have  done ! 
Now,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  shall  always  be  thinking  of 
this  forest,  the  house,  and  —  and  —  the  children  —  and 
all  that  happiness  which  I  shall  never  have  —  never  — 
never !  And  if  I  cannot  forget  what  you  have  told  me, 
why,  my  life  will  be  one  eternal  punishment,  —  a  hell,  — 
and  that  by  your  fault !    Yes,  by  your  fault !  " 

"  So  much  the  better  !  Oh,  so  much  the  better ! "  said 
Fleur-de-Marie. 

"  You  say,  so  much  the  better  !  "  exclaimed  La  Louve, 
with  her  eyes  glaring. 

276 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


"Yes,  —  so  much  the  better!  For  if  your  present 
miserable  life  appears  to  you  a  hell,  you  will  prefer  that 
of  which  I  have  spoken  to  you." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  preferring  it,  since  it  is  not  des- 
tined for  me  ?  What  is  the  use  of  regretting  that  I 
walk  the  streets,  since  I  shall  die  in  the  streets  ? "  ex- 
claimed La  Louve,  more  and  more  irritated,  and  taking 
in  her  powerful  grasp  the  small  hand  of  Fleur-de-Marie. 
"  Answer  —  answer  !  Why  do  you  try  to  make  me 
desire  that  which  I  cannot  have." 

"  To  desire  an  honest  and  industrious  life  is  to  be 
worthy  of  that  life,  as  I  have  already  told  you,"  replied 
Fleur-de-Marie,  without  attempting  to  disengage  her 
hand. 

"  Well,  and  what  then  ?  Suppose  I  am  worthy,  what 
does  that  prove  ?  How  much  the  better  off  will  that 
make  me  ? " 

"  To  see  realised  what  you  consider  as  a  dream," 
answered  Fleur-de-Marie,  in  a  tone  so  serious  and  full  of 
conviction  that  La  Louve,  again  under  control,  let  go 
La  Goualeuse's  hand,  and  gazed  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Listen  to  me,  La  Louve,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  in  a 
voice  full  of  feeling ;  "  do  you  think  me  so  wicked  as  to 
excite  such  ideas  and  hopes  in  you,  if  I  were  not  sure 
that,  whilst  I  made  you  blush  at  your  present  condition, 
I  gave  you  the  means  to  quit  it  ? " 

"  You !    You  can  do  this  ? " 

"  I !  No ;  but  some  one  who  is  good,  and  great,  and 
powerful." 

"  Great  and  powerful  ?  " 

"  Listen,  La  Louve.  Three  months  ago  I  was,  like 
you,  a  lost,  an  abandoned  creature.  One  day  he  of  whom 
I  speak  to  you  with  tears  of  gratitude," —  and  Fleur-de- 
Marie  wiped  her  eyes,  —  "  one  day  he  came  to  me,  and 
he  was  not  afraid,  abased  and  despised  as  I  was,  to  say 
comforting  words  to  me,  the  first  I  had  ever  heard.  I 
told  him  my  sufferings,  my  miseries,  my  shame ;  I  con- 
277 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


cealed  nothing  from  him,  just  as  you  have  related  to  me 
all  your  past  life,  La  Louve.  After  having  listened  to  - 
me  with  kindness,  he  did  not  blame,  but  pitied  me  ;  he 
did  not  even  reproach  me  with  my  disgraceful  position, 
but  talked  to  me  of  the  calm  and  pure  life  which  was 
found  in  the  country." 
"  As  you  did  just  now  ? " 

"  Then  my  situation  appeared  to  me  the  more  fright- 
ful, in  proportion  as  the  future  he  held  out  to  me  seemed 
more  beautiful." 

"  Like  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  so  I  said  as  you  did,  —  What  use,  alas  !  is 
it  to  make  me  fancy  this  paradise,  —  me,  who  am 
chained  to  hell  ?  But  I  was  wrong  to  despair ;  for  he 
of  whom  I  speak  is  so  good,  so  just,  that  he  is  incapable 
of  making  a  false  hope  shine  in  the  eyes  of  a  poor  crea- 
ture who  asked  no  one  for  pity,  happiness,  or  hope." 

"  And  what  did  he  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  He  treated  me  like  a  sick  child.  I  was,  like  you, 
immersed  in  a  corrupted  air,  and  he  sent  me  to  breathe 
a  wholesome  and  reviving  atmosphere.  I  was  also  living 
amongst  hideous  and  criminal  beings,  and  he  confided 
me  to  persons  as  good  as  himself,  who  have  purified  my 
soul  and  elevated  my  mind ;  for  he  communicates  to  all 
those  who  love  and  respect  him  a  spark  of  his  own  re- 
fined intelligence.  Yes,  if  my  words  move  you,  La 
Louve,  if  my  tears  make  your  tears  flow,  it  is  that  his 
mind  and  thought  inspire  me.  If  I  speak  to  you  of  the 
happier  future  which  you  will  obtain  by  repentance,  it  is 
because  I  can  promise  you  this  future  in  his  name,  al- 
though, at  this  moment,  he  is  ignorant  of  the  engage- 
ment I  make.  In  fact,  I  say  to  you,  Hope  !  because  he 
always  listens  to  the  voice  of  those  who  desire  to  become 
better ;  for  God  sent  him  on  earth  to  make  people  believe 
in  his  providence  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  Fleur-de-Marie's  countenance  became 
radiant,  and  her  pale  cheeks  suffused  with  a  delicate  car- 
278 


LA  LOUYE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


nation ;  her  beautiful  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  appeared 
so  touchingly  beautiful  that  La  Louve  gazed  on  her 
with  respectful  admiration,  and  said : 

"  Where  am  I  ?  Do  I  dream  ?  Who  are  you,  then  ? 
Oh,  I  was  right  when  I  said  you  were  not  one  of  us ! 
But,  then,  you  talk  so  well,  —  you,  who  can  do  so  much, 
you,  who  know  such  powerful  people,  how  is  it  that  you 
are  here,  a  prisoner  with  us  ? " 

Fleur-de-Marie  was  about  to  reply,  when  Madame 
Armand  came  up  and  interrupted  her,  to  conduct  her 
to  Madame  d'Harville.  La  Louve  remained  over- 
whelmed with  surprise,  and  the  inspectress  said  to 
her : 

"  I  see,  with  pleasure,  that  the  presence  of  La  Goua- 
leuse  in  the  prison  has  brought  good  fortune  to  you  and 
your  companions.  I  know  you  have  made  a  subscrip- 
tion for  poor  Mont  Saint-Jean ;  that  is  kind  and  chari- 
table, La  Louve,  and  will  be  of  service  to  you.  I  was 
sure  that  you  were  better  than  you  allowed  yourself  tf. 
appear.  In  recompense  for  this  kind  action,  I  think  I 
can  promise  you  that  the  term  of  your  imprisonment 
shall  be  shortened  by  several  days." 

Madame  Armand  then  walked  away,  followed  by 
Fleur-de-Marie. 

We  must  not  be  astonished  at  the  almost  eloquent  lan- 
guage of  Fleur-de-Marie,  when  we  remember  that  her 
mind,  so  wonderfully  gifted,  had  rapidly  developed  itself, 
thanks  to  the  education  and  instruction  she  had  received 
at  Bouqueval  farm. 

The  young  girl  was,  indeed,  strong  in  her  experience. 

The  sentiments  she  had  awakened  in  the  heart  of  La 
Louve  had  been  awakened  in  her  own  heart  by  Rodolph, 
and  under  almost  similar  circumstances. 

Believing  that  she  detected  some  good  instincts  in  her 
companion,  she  had  endeavoured  to  lure  her  back  to 
honesty,  by  proving  to  her  (according  to  Rodolph's 
279 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


theory,  applied  to  the  farm  at  Bouqueval)  that  it  was 
her  interest  to  become  honest,  by  pointing  out  to  her 
restitution  to  the  paths  of  rectitude  in  smiling  and 
attractive  colours. 

And  here  let  us  repeat  that,  in  our  opinion,  an  incom- 
plete as  well  as  stupid  and  inefficacious  mode  is  em- 
ployed to  inspire  the  poor  and  ignorant  classes  with  a 
hatred  of  evil  and  a  love  of  good. 

In  order  to  turn  them  away  from  the  bad  path,  they 
are  incessantly  threatened  with  divine  and  human  ven- 
geance ;  incessantly  a  sinister  clank  is  sounded  in  their 
ears :  prison-keep,  fetters,  handcuffs ;  and,  in  the  dis- 
tance, in  dark  shadow,  at  the  extreme  horizon  of  crime, 
they  have  their  attention  directed  to  the  executioner's 
axe  glittering  amidst  the  glare  of  everlasting  flames. 
We  observe  that  the  intimidation  is  constant,  fearful, 
and  appalling.  To  him  who  does  ill,  imprisonment,  in- 
famy, punishment.  This  is  just.  But  to  him  who  does 
well  does  society  award  noble  gifts,  glorious  distinc- 
tions ?  No. 

Does  society  encourage  resignation,  order,  probity,  in 
that  immense  mass  of  artisans  who  are  for  ever  doomed 
to  toil  and  privation,  and  almost  always  to  profound 
misery,  by  benevolent  rewards  ?  No. 

Is  the  scaffold  which  the  criminal  ascends  a  protec- 
tion for  the  man  of  integrity  ?  No. 

Strange  and  fatal  symbol !  Justice  is  represented  as 
blind,  bearing  in  one  hand  a  sword  to  punish,  and  in  the 
other  scales  in  which  she  weighs  accusation  and  defence. 
This  is  not  the  image  of  Justice.  This  is  the  image  of 
Law,  or,  rather,  of  the  man  who  condemns  or  acquits 
according  to  his  conscience.  Justice  should  hold  in  one 
hand  a  sword,  and  in  the  other  a  crown,  —  one  to  strike 
the  wicked,  and  the  other  to  recompense  the  good.  The 
people  would  then  see  that,  if  there  is  a  terrible  punish- 
ment for  evil,  there  is  a  brilliant  recompense  for  good ; 
whilst  as  it  is,  in  their  plain  and  simple  sense,  the  peo- 
280 


LA  LOUVE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


pie  seek  in  vain  for  the  contrary  side  of  tribunals,  gaols, 
galleys,  and  scaffolds.  The  people  see  plainly  a  criminal 
justice,  consisting  of  upright,  inflexible,  enlightened  men, 
always  employed  in  searching  out,  detecting,  and  pun- 
ishing the  evil-doers.  They  do  not  see  the  virtuous 
justice,  consisting  of  upright,  inflexible,  and  enlightened 
men,  always  searching  out  and  rewarding  the  honest 
man.  All  says  to  him,  Tremble !  Nothing  says  to  him, 
Hope !    All  threatens  him ;  nothing  consoles  him ! 

The  state  annually  expends  many  millions  for  the 
sterile  punishment  of  crimes.  With  this  enormous  sum 
it  keeps  prisoners  and  gaolers,  galley-slaves  and  galley- 
sergeants,  scaffolds  and  executioners.  This  is  neces- 
sary ?  Agreed.  But  how  much  does  the  state  disburse 
for  the  rewards  (so  salutary,  so  fruitful)  for  honest 
men  ?  Nothing.  And  this  is  not  all,  as  we  shall  dem- 
onstrate when  the  course  of  this  recital  shall  conduct  us 
to  the  state  prison ;  how  many  artisans  of  irreproachable 
honesty  would  attain  the  summit  of  their  wishes  if  they 
were  assured  of  enjoying  one  day  the  bodily  comforts  of 
prisoners,  always  certain  of  good  food,  good  bed,  and 
good  shelter  ?  And  yet,  in  the  name  of  their  dignity, 
as  honest  men,  long  and  painfully  tried,  have  they  not 
a  right  to  claim  the  same  care  and  comforts  as  crimi- 
nals,—  such,  for  instance,  as  Morel,  the  lapidary,  who 
had  toiled  for  twenty  years,  industrious,  honest,  and 
resigned,  in  the  midst  of  bitter  misery  and  sore  tempta- 
tions ?  Do  not  such  men  deserve  sufficiently  well  of 
society,  that  society  should  try  and  find  them  out,  and 
if  not  recompense  them,  for  the  honour  of  humanity,  at 
least  support  them  in  the  painful  and  difficult  path  which 
they  tread  so  courageously  ?  Is  the  man  of  worth  so 
modest  that  he  finds  greater  security  than  the  thief  or 
assassin  ?  and  are  not  these  always  detected  by  criminal 
justice  ?    Alas,  it  is  a  utopia,  but  it  is  consoling ! 

Suppose,  for  the  moment,  a  society  were  so  organised 
that  it  would  hold  an  assizes  of  virtue,  as  we  have 
281 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


assizes  of  crime,  —  a  public  ministry  pointing  out  noble 
actions,  disclosing  them  to  the  view  of  all,  as  we  now 
denounce  crimes  to  the  avenging  power  of  the  laws. 
We  will  give  two  instances  —  two  justices  —  and  let 
our  readers  say  which  is  most  fruitful  in  instruction,  in 
consequences,  in  positive  results.  One  man  has  killed 
another,  for  the  purpose  of  robbing  him ;  at  break  of 
day  they  stealthily  erect  the  guillotine  in  an  obscure 
corner  of  Paris  and  cut  off  the  assassin's  head  before 
the  dregs  of  the  populace,  which  laughs  at  the  judge, 
the  sufferer,  and  the  executioner.  This  is  the  last  resort 
of  society.  This  is  the  chastisement  she  bestows  on 
the  greatest  crime  which  can  be  committed  against  her. 
This  u  the  most  terrible,  the  most  wholesome  warning 
she  can  give  to  her  population,  —  the  only  one,  for  there 
is  no  counterpoise  to  this  keen  axe,  dripping  with  blood ; 
no,  society  has  no  spectacle,  mild  and  benevolent,  to 
oppose  to  this  funereal  scene. 

Let  us  go  on  with  our  utopia.  Would  it  not  be  other- 
wise if  almost  every  day  the  people  had  before  their 
eyes  some  illustrious  virtues  greatly  glorified  and  sub- 
stantially rewarded  by  the  state  ?  Would  it  not  be  to 
encourage  good  continually,  if  we  often  saw  an  august, 
imposing,  and  venerable  tribunal  summon  before  it,  in 
presence  of  an  immense  multitude,  a  poor  and  honest 
artisan,  whose  long,  intelligent,  and  enduring  life  should 
be  described,  whilst  he  was  thus  addressed  : 

"  For  twenty  years  you  have  manfully  struggled 
against  misfortune,  your  family  has  been  brought  up 
by  you  in  the  principles  of  honour  and  rectitude,  your 
superior  virtues  have  greatly  distinguished  you,  —  you 
merit  praise  and  recompense.  Society,  always  vigilant, 
just,  and  all-powerful,  never  leaves  in  oblivion  either 
good  or  evil.  Every  man  is  recompensed  according  to 
his  works.  The  state  assures  to  you  a  pension  sufficient 
for  your  wants.  Obtaining  this  deserved  mark  of  public 
notice,  you  will  end  in  leisure  and  ease  a  life  which  is 
282 


LA  LOUYE  AND  LA  GOUALEUSE. 


an  example  to  all ;  and  thus  are  and  will  be  exalted 
those  who,  like  yourself,  shall  have  struggled  for  many 
years  with  an  admirable  persistence  in  good,  and  given 
proof  of  rare  and  grand  moral  qualities.  Your  example 
will  encourage  a  great  many  to  imitate  you ;  hope  will 
lighten  the  painful  burden  which  their  destiny  imposes 
on  them  for  so  many  years  of  their  life.  Animated  by 
a  salutary  emulation,  they  will  energetically  struggle  to 
accomplish  the  most  arduous  duties,  in  order  that  one 
day  they  may  be  distinguished  from  the  rest,  and  rewarded 
as  you  are." 

We  ask,  which  of  the  two  sights  —  the  beheaded 
assassin,  or  the  good  man  Rewarded  —  would  act  on  the 
million  with  more  salutary  and  more  fruitful  effect  ? 

No  doubt  many  delicate  minds  wi1!  be  indignant  at 
the  bare  thought  of  these  ignoble  substantial  rewards 
awarded  to  the  most  ethereal  thing  in  the  world, — 
Virtue !  They  will  find  all  sorts  of  arguments,  more  or 
less  philosophical,  platonic,  theological,  and  especially 
economic,  against  such  a  proposition ;  such  as,  "  Virtue 
is  its  own  reward ; "  "  Virtue  is  a  priceless  gem ;  "  "  The 
satisfaction  of  the  conscience  ic  the  noblest  of  recom- 
penses ; "  and,  finally,  this  triumphant  and  unanswerable 
objection,  "  The  eternal  happiness  which  awaits  the  just 
in  another  life  ought  to  be  sufficient  to  encourage  man- 
kind to  do  well."  To  this  we  reply  that  society,  in 
order  to  intimidate  and  punish  the  guilty,  does  not 
appear  to  us  to  rely  entirely  and  exclusively  on  the 
divine  vengeance,  which  they  tell  us  will  visit  them  in 
another  world.  Society  anticipates  the  last  judgment 
by  human  judgments.  Awaiting  the  inexorable  hour 
of  the  archangels  in  armour,  with  sounding  trumpets 
and  fiery  swords,  society  modestly  comforts  herself 
with  —  gens-d?  armes. 

We  repeat,  to  terrify  the  wicked,  we  materialise,  or 
rather  we  reduce  to  human,  perceptible,  and  visible 
proportions,  the  anticipated  effects  of  divine  wrath. 
283 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Why  should  we  not  do  the  same  with  the  divine 
rewards  to  worthy  and  virtuous  people  ? 

But  let  us  leave  these  mad,  absurd,  stupid,  impracti- 
cable utopianisms,  like  real  utopianisms,  as  they  are. 
Society  is  as  well  as  it  is.  Ask  those  merry  souls,  who, 
with  uncertain  step,  stupid  look,  and  noisy  laugh,  have 
just  quitted  the  gay  banquet,  if  it  is  not. 


284 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  PROTECTRESS. 

The  inspectress  soon  entered  with  Goualeuse  into  the 
little  room  where  Cle'mence  was  staying.  The  pale  cheek 
of  the  young  girl  was  still  slightly  coloured  in  conse- 
quence of  her  conversation  with  La  Louve. 

"  Madame  la  Marquise,  pleased  with  the  excellent 
character  I  have  given  of  you,"  said  Madame  Armand 
to  Fleur-de-Marie,  "  has  desired  to  see  you,  and  will, 
perhaps,  be  so  good  as  to  have  you  released  from  here 
before  the  expiration  of  your  time." 

"  I  thank  you,  madame,"  replied  Fleur-de-Marie, 
timidly,  to  Madame  Armand,  who  left  her  alone  with 
the  marchioness. 

The  latter,  struck  by  the  candid  expression  of  her 
protegee's  features,  and  by  her  carriage,  so  full  of  grace 
and  modesty,  could  not  help  remembering  that  La 
Goualeuse  had  pronounced  the  name  of  Rodolph  in  her 
sleep,  and  that  the  inspectress  believed  the  youthful 
prisoner  to  be  a  prey  to  deep  and  hidden  love.  Although 
perfectly  convinced  that  it  could  not  be  a  question  as  to 
the  Grand  Duke  Rodolph,  Clemence  acknowledged  to 
herself  that,  with  regard  to  beauty,  La  Goualeuse  was 
worthy  of  a  prince's  love. 

At  the  sight  of  her  protectress,  whose  physiognomy, 
as  we  have  said,  displayed  excessive  goodness,  Fleur-de- 
Marie  felt  herself  sympathetically  attracted  towards 
her. 

"  My  girl,"  said  Cle'mence  to  her,  "  whilst  commend- 

285 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


ing  the  gentleness  of  your  disposition  and  the  discreet- 
ness of  your  behaviour,  Madame  Armand  complains  of 
your  want  of  confidence  in  her." 

Fleur-de-Marie  bowed  her  look,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  The  peasant's  dress  in  which  you  were  clad  when 
you  were  apprehended,  your  silence  on  the  subject  of 
the  place  where  you  resided  before  you  were  brought 
here,  prove  that  you  conceal  certain  particulars  from  us." 

"  Madame  —  " 

"  I  have  no  right  to  your  confidence,  my  poor  child, 
nor  would  I  ask  you  any  question  that  would  distress 
you ;  but,  as  I  am  assured  that  if  I  request  your  dis- 
charge from  prison  it  will  be  accorded  to  me,  before  I 
do  so  I  should  wish  to  talk  to  you  of  your  own  plans, 
your  resources  for  the  future.  Once  free,  what  do  you 
propose  to  do  ?  If,  as  I  doubt  not,  you  decide  on  follow- 
ing the  good  path  you  have  already  entered  upon,  have 
confidence  in  me,  and  I  will  put  you  in  the  way  of 
gaining  an  honest  subsistence." 

La  Goualeuse  was  moved  to  tears  at  the  interest 
which  Madame  d'Harville  evinced  for  her.  After  a 
moment's  hesitation,  she  replied  : 

"  You  are  very  good,  madame,  to  show  so  much 
benevolence  towards  me,  —  so  generous,  that  I  ought, 
perhaps,  to  break  the  silence  which  I  have  hitherto  kept 
on  the  past,  to  which  I  was  forced  by  an  oath  —  " 

"An  oath?" 

"  Yes,  madame,  I  have  sworn  to  be  secret  to  justice, 
and  the  persons  employed  in  this  prison,  as  to  the 
series  of  events  by  which  I  was  brought  hither.  Yet, 
madame,  if  you  will  make  me  a  promise  —  " 

"  Of  what  nature  ?  " 

"  To  keep  my  secret.  I  may,  thanks  to  you,  madame, 
without  breaking  my  oath,  comfort  most  worthy  persons 
who,  no  doubt,  are  excessively  uneasy  on  my  account." 

"  Rely  on  my  discretion.  I  will  only  say  what  you 
authorise  me  to  disclose." 

286 


THE  PROTECTRESS. 


"  Oh,  thanks,  madame !  I  was  so  fearful  that  my 
silence  towards  my  benefactors  would  appear  like 
ingratitude !  " 

The  gentle  accents  of  Fleur-de-Marie,  and  her  well- 
selected  phrases,  struck  Madame  d'Harville  with  fresh 
surprise. 

"  I  will  not  conceal  from  you,"  said  she,  "  that  your 
demeanour,  your  language,  all  surprise  me  in  a  remark- 
able degree.  How  could  you,  with  an  education  which 
appears  polished,  —  how  could  you  —  " 

"  Fall  so  low,  you  would  say,  madame  ? "  said  Goua- 
leuse,  with  bitterness.  "  Alas !  It  is  but  a  very  short 
time  that  I  have  received  this  education.  I  owe  this 
benefit  to  a  generous  protector,  who,  like  you,  madame, 
without  knowing  me,  without  even  having  the  favourable 
recommendation  which  you  have  received  in  my  favour, 
took  pity  upon  me  —  " 

"  And  who  is  this  protector  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  madame." 

"  You  do  not  know  ?  " 

"  He  only  makes  himself  known,  they  tell  me,  by  his 
inexhaustible  goodness.  Thanks  be  to  Heaven,  he  found 
me  in  his  path  !  " 

"  And  when  did  you  first  meet  ?  " 

"One  night,  —  in  the  Cite",  madame,"  said  Goualeuse, 
lowering  her  eyes,  "  a  man  was  going  to  beat  me ;  this 
unknown  benefactor  defended  me  courageously ;  this  was 
my  first  meeting  with  him." 

"  Then  he  was  one  of  the  people  ?  " 

"The  first  time  I  saw  him  he  had  the  dress  and 
language;  but  afterwards  —  " 

"  Afterwards  ?  " 

"  The  way  in  which  he  spoke  to  me,  the  profound 
respect  with  which  he  was  treated  by  the  persons  to 
whom  he  confided  me,  all  proved  to  me  that  he  had 
only  assumed  the  exterior  disguise  of  one  of  the  men 
who  are  seen  about  the  CiteV' 
287 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  But  with  what  motive  ?" 
"  I  do  not  know." 

"  And  do  you  know  the  name  of  this  mysterious 
protector  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  madame,"  said  La  Goualeuse,  with  excite- 
ment ;  "  thank  Heaven !  For  I  can  incessantly  bless  and 
adore  that  name.  My  preserver  is  called  M.  Rodolph, 
madame." 

C16mence  blushed  deeply. 

"And  has  he  no  other  name,"  she  asked,  quickly, 
of  Fleur-de-Marie. 

"  I  know  no  other,  madame.  In  the  farm,  where  he 
sent  me,  he  was  only  known  as  M.  Rodolph." 

"  And  his  age  ?  " 

"  Still  young,  madame." 

"  And  handsome  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !    Handsome,  —  noble  as  his  own  heart." 

The  grateful  and  impassioned  accent  with  which 
Fleur-de-Marie  uttered  these  words  caused  a  deeply 
painful  sensation  in  Madame  d'Harville's  bosom.  An 
unconquerable  and  inexplicable  presentiment  told  her 
that  it  was  indeed  the  prince.  "The  remarks  of  the 
inspectress  were  just,"  thought  Clemence.  "  Goualeuse 
loves  Rodolph  ;  that  was  the  name  which  she  pronounced 
in  her  sleep.  Under  what  strange  circumstance  had  the 
prince  and  this  unfortunate  girl  met  ?  Why  did  Rodolph 
go  disguised  into  the  Cite*  ? " 

The  marquise  could  not  resolve  these  questions. 
She  only  remembered  what  Sarah  had  wickedly  and 
mendaciously  told  her  as  to  the  pretended  eccentrici- 
ties of  Rodolph.  Was  it  not,  in  fact,  strange  that  he 
should  have  extricated  from  the  dregs  of  society  a  girl 
of  such  excessive  loveliness,  and  evidently  so  intelligent 
and  sensible  ? 

Cle'mence  had  noble  qualities,  but  she  was  a  woman, 
and  deeply  loved  Rodolph,  although  she  had  resolved  to 
bury  that  secret  in  her  heart's  very  core. 

288 


THE  PROTECTRESS. 


Without  reflecting  that  this  was  unquestionably  but 
one  of  those  generous  actions  which  the  prince  was 
accustomed  to  do  by  stealth,  without  considering  that 
she  was,  perchance,  confounding  with  love  a  sentiment 
that  was  but  excess  of  gratitude,  without  considering 
that,  even  if  this  feeling  were  more  tender,  Rodolph 
must  be  ignorant  of  it,  the  marchioness,  in  the  first 
moment  of  bitterness  and  injustice,  could  not  help  look- 
ing on  Goualeuse  as  her  rival.  Her  pride  revolted  when 
she  believed  she  was  suffering,  in  spite  of  herself,  with 
such  a  humiliating  rivalry ;  and  she  replied,  in  a  tone 
so  harsh  as  to  contrast  cruelly  with  the  affectionate 
kindness  of  her  first  words: 

"And  how  is  it,  then,  mademoiselle,  that  your  pro- 
tector leaves  you  in  prison  ?  How  comes  it  that  you 
are  here?" 

"  Oh,  madame,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  struck  at  this 
sudden  change  of  tone,  "  have  I  done  anything  to 
displease  you  ?  " 

"In  what  could  you  have  displeased  me?"  asked 
Madame  d'Harville,  haughtily. 

"  It  appeared  to  me  just  now  that  you  spoke  to  me  so 
kindly,  madame." 

"  Really,  mademoiselle,  is  it  necessary  that  I  should 
weigh  every  word  I  utter  ?  Since  I  take  an  interest 
in  you,  I  have,  I  think,  a  right  to  ask  you  certain 
Questions ! " 

Scarcely  had  Clemence  uttered  these  words,  than  she 
regretted  their  severity ;  first  from  a  praiseworthy  return 
of  generosity,  and  then  because  she  thought  by  being 
harsh  with  her  rival  she  might  not  learn  any  more  of 
what  she  was  so  anxious  to  know.  In  fact,  Goualeuse's 
countenance,  just  now  so  open  and  confiding,  became 
suddenly  alarmed.  Like  the  sensitive  plant,  which,  on 
the  first  touch,  curls  up  its  leaves  and  withdraws  within 
itself,  the  heart  of  Fleur-de-Marie  became  painfully  con- 
tracted.   Clemence  replied,  gently,  in  order  that  she 

289 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


might  not  awaken  her  protdgeVs  suspicions  by  too 
sudden  a  return  to  a  milder  tone : 

"  Really  I  must  repeat  that  I  cannot  understand  why, 
having  so  much  to  praise  your  benefactor  for,  you  are 
left  here  a  prisoner.  How  is  it  that,  after  having  returned 
with  all  sincerity  to  the  paths  of  rectitude,  you  could 
have  been  apprehended,  at  night,  in  a  forbidden  place  ? 
All  this,  I  confess  to  you,  appears  to  me  very  extraor- 
dinary. You  speak  of  an  oath,  which  has  bound  you 
to  silence ;  but  this  very  oath  is  so  strange ! " 

"  I  have  spoken  the  truth,  madame —  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  that ;  it  is  only  to  see  and  hear  you  to 
be  convinced  that  you  are  incapable  of  falsehood;  but 
what  is  so  incomprehensible  in  your  situation  makes  me 
the  more  curious  and  impatient  to  have  it  cleared  up; 
and  to  this  alone  must  you  attribute  the  abruptness  of 
my  language  just  now.  I  was  wrong,  I  feel  I  was,  for, 
although  I  have  no  claim  to  your  confidence  beyond  my 
anxious  desire  to  be  of  service  to  you,  yet  you  have 
offered  to  disclose  to  me  what  you  have  not  yet  told  to 
any  person;  and  I  can  assure  you,  my  poor  girl,  that 
this  proof  of  your  confidence  in  the  interest  I  feel  for 
you  touches  me  very  nearly.  I  promise  you  to  keep 
your  secret  most  scrupulously,  if  you  confide  it  to  me, 
and  I  will  do  everything  in  my  power  to  effect  what 
you  may  wish  to  have  done." 

Thanks  to  this  skilful  patching  up  (the  phrase  will  be 
excused,  we  trust),  Madame  d'Harville  regained  La 
Goualeuse's  confidence,  which  had  been  for  a  moment 
repressed.  Fleur-de-Marie,  in  her  candDur,  reproached 
herself  for  having  wrongly  interpreted  the  words  which 
had  wounded  her. 

"  Excuse  me,  madame,"  she  said  to  Cle'mence ;  "  I 
was,  no  doubt,  wrong  not  to  tell  you  at  once  what  you 
desired  to  know,  but  you  asked  me  for  the  name  of  my 
preserver,  and,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  could  not  resist  the 
pleasure  of  speaking  of  him." 

290 


THE  PROTECTRESS. 


"  Nothing  could  be  more  praiseworthy,  and  it  proves 
how  truly  grateful  you  are  to  him.  Tell  me  how  it  was 
that  you  left  the  worthy  people  with  whom  you  were,  no 
doubt,  placed  by  M.  Rodolph  ?  Is  it  to  this  event  that 
the  oath  you  were  compelled  to  take,  refers  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame ;  but,  thanks  to  you,  I  think  I  may 
still  keep  my  word  faithfully,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
inform  my  benefactors  as  to  my  disappearance." 

"  Now,  then,  my  poor  girl,  I  am  all  attention  to  you." 

"  It  is  three  months  nearly  since  M.  Rodolph  placed 
me  at  a  farm,  which  is  situated  four  or  five  leagues  from 
Paris  —  " 

"  Did  M.  Rodolph  take  you  there  himself  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame,  and  confided  me  to  the  charge  of  a  - 
worthy  lady,  as  good  as  she  was  venerable  ;  and  I  loved 
her  like  my  mother.    She  and  the  cure*  of  the  village,  at 
the  request  of  M.  Rodolph,  took  charge  of  my  education." 

"And  M.  —  Rodolph,  —  did  he  often  come  to  the 
farm?" 

"  No,  madame,  he  only  came  three  times  during  the 
whole  time  I  was  there." 

Cle'mence's  heart  throbbed  with  joy. 

"  And  when  he  came  to  see  you  that  made  you  very 
happy,  did  it  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  madame  !  It  was  more  than  happiness  to 
me ;  it  was  a  feeling  mingled  with  gratitude,  respect, 
adoration,  and  even  a  degree  of  fear." 

"Of  fear?" 

"  Between  him  and  me,  between  him  and  others,  the 
distance  is  so  great ! " 

"  But  what,  then,  was  his  rank  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  he  had  any  rank,  madame." 

"  Yet  you  allude  to  the  distance  which  exists  between 
him  and  others." 

"  Oh,  madame,  what  places  him  above  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  is  the  elevation  of  his  character,  his  inexhaust- 
ible generosity  towards  those  who  suffer,  the  enthusiasm 
291 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


which  he  inspires  in  every  one.  The  wicked,  even, 
cannot  hear  his  name  without  trembling,  and  respect 
as  much  as  they  dread  him !  But  forgive  me,  madame, 
for  still  speaking  of  him.  I  ought  to  be  silent,  for  I 
seek  to  give  you  an  adequate  idea  of  him  who  ought  to 
be  adored  in  silence.  I  might  as  well  try  to  express  by 
words  the  goodness  of  Heaven ! " 
"  This  comparison  —  " 

"  Is,  perhaps,  sacrilegious,  madame  ;  but  will  it  offend 
the  good  God  to  compare  to  him  one  who  has  given  me 
the  consciousness  of  good  and  evil,  one  who  has  snatched 
me  from  the  abyss,  one,  in  fact,  to  whom  I  owe  a  new 
existence  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  blame  you,  my  child ;  I  can  understand  all 
your  noble  exaggerations.  But  how  was  it  that  you 
abandoned  this  farm,  where  you  must  have  been  so 
happy  ? " 

"  Alas,  not  voluntarily,  madame !  " 

"  Who,  then,  forced  you  away  ?  " 

"  One  evening,  some  days  since,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie, 
trembling  even  as  she  spoke,  "  I  was  going  towards  the 
parsonage-house  in  the  village,  when  a  wicked  woman, 
who  had  used  me  very  cruelly  during  my  infancy,  and  a 
man,  her  accomplice,  who  had  concealed  themselves  in 
a  ravine,  threw  themselves  upon  me,  and,  after  having 
gagged  me,  carried  me  off  in  a  hackney-coach." 

"  For  what  purpose  ? " 

"  I  know  not,  madame.  My  ravishers,  as  I  think, 
were  acting  in  conformity  to  orders  from  some  powerful 
personages." 

"  What  followed  this  ? " 

"  Scarcely  was  the  hackney-coach  in  motion,  than  the 
wicked  creature,  who  is  called  La  Chouette,  exclaimed, 
'  I  have  some  vitriol  here,  and  I'll  rub  La  Goualeuse's 
face,  to  disfigure  her  with  it ! '  " 

"  Oh,  horrible  !  Unhappy  girl !  And  who  has  saved 
you  from  this  danger  ?  " 

292 


THE  PROTECTRESS. 


"The  woman's  confederate,  a  blind  man  called  the 
Schoolmaster." 

"  And  he  defended  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame,  this  and  another  time  also.  On  this 
occasion  there  was  a  struggle  between  him  and  La 
Chouette :  exerting  his  strength,  the  Schoolmaster  com- 
pelled her  to  throw  out  of  window  the  bottle  which  held 
the  vitriol.  This  was  the  first  service  he  rendered  me, 
after  having,  however,  aided  in  carrying  me  off.  The 
night  was  excessively  dark.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  and 
a  half  the  coach  stopped,  as  I  think,  on  the  highroad 
which  traverses  the  Plain  St.  Denis,  and  here  was  a 
man  on  horseback,  evidently  awaiting  us.  '  What ! ' 
said  he,  '  have  you  got  her  at  last  ? '  '  Yes,  we've  got 
her,'  answered  La  Chouette,  who  was  furious  because 
she  had  been  hindered  from  disfiguring  me.  '  If  you 
wish  to  get  rid  of  the  little  baggage  at  once,  it  will 
be  a  good  plan  to  stretch  her  on  the  ground,  and  let 
the  coach  wheels  pass  over  her  skull.  It  will  appear  as 
if  she  had  been  accidentally  killed.'  " 

"  You  make  me  shudder." 

"Alas,  madame,  La  Chouette  was  quite  capable  of 
doing  what  she  said !  Fortunately,  the  man  on  horse- 
back replied  that  he  would  not  have  any  harm  done  to 
me,  and  all  he  wanted  7vas  to  have  me  confined  some- 
where for  two  months  in  a  place  whence  I  could  neither 
go  out  nor  be  allowed  to  write  to  any  one.  Then  La 
Chouette  proposed  to  take  me  to  a  man's  called  Bras 
Rouge,  who  keeps  a  tavern  in  the  Champs  Elyse'es.  In 
this  tavern  there  are  several  subterranean  chambers,  and 
one  of  these,  La  Chouette  said,  would  serve  me  for  a 
prison.  The  man  on  horseback  agreed  to  this  proposi- 
tion; and  he  promised  me  that,  after  remaining  two 
months  at  Bras  Rouge's,  I  should  be  properly  taken  care 
of,  and  not  be  sorry  for  having  quitted  the  farm  at 
Bouqueval." 

"  What  a  strange  mystery  !  " 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  This  man  gave  money  to  La  Chouette,  and  promised 
her  more  when  she  should  bring  me  from  Bras  Rouge's, 
and  then  galloped  away.  Our  hackney-coach  continued 
its  way  on  to  Paris ;  and  a  short  time  before  we  reached 
the  barrier  the  Schoolmaster  said  to  La  Chouette,  *  You 
want  to  shut  Goualeuse  up  in  one  of  Bras  Rouge's  cel- 
lars, when  you  know  very  well  that,  being  so  close  to 
the  river's  side,  these  cellars  are  always  under  water  in 
the  winter !  Do  you  wish  to  drown  her  ? '  '  Yes,'  replied 
La  Chouette." 

"  Poor  girl !  What  had  you  ever  done  to  this  horrid 
woman  ? " 

"  Nothing,  madame ;  and  from  my  very  infancy  she 
had  always  been  so  full  of  hatred  towards  me.  The 
Schoolmaster  replied,  '  I  won't  have  Goualeuse  drowned  ! 
She  sha'n't  go  to  Bras  Rouge's ! '  La  Chouette  was  as 
astonished  as  I  was,  madame,  to  hear  this  man  defend 
me  thus,  and  she  flew  into  a  violent  rage,  and  swore  she 
would  take  me  to  Bras  Rouge's  in  spite  of  the  School- 
master. '  I  defy  you ! '  said  he,  '  for  I  have  got  Goua- 
leuse by  the  arm,  and  I  will  not  let  go  my  hold  of  her ; 
and,  if  you  come  near  her,  I'll  strangle  you ! '  '  What 
do  you  mean,  then,  to  do  with  her,'  cried  La  Chouette, 
'  since  she  must  be  concealed  somewhere  for  two  months, 
so  that  no  one  may  know  where  she  is  ? '  '  There's  a 
way,'  said  the  Schoolmaster.  '  We  are  going  by  the 
Champs  Elyse'es ;  we  will  stop  the  coach  a  little  way  off 
the  guard-house,  and  you  shall  go  to  Bras  Rouge's  tav- 
ern. It  is  midnight,  and  you  will  be  sure  to  find  him ; 
bring  him  here,  and  he  shall  lead  La  Goualeuse  to  the 
guard-house,  declaring  that  she  is  a  jille  de  la  Cite,  whom 
he  has  found  loitering  about  his  house.  As  girls  are 
sentenced  to  three  months'  imprisonment  if  found  in  the 
Champs  Elyse'es,  and  as  La  Goualeuse  is  still  on  the 
police  books,  she  will  be  apprehended  and  sent  to  St. 
Lazare,  where  she  will  be  better  taken  care  of  and  con- 
cealed than  in  Bras  Rouge's  cellar.'  '  But,'  answered 
29i 


THE  PROTECTRESS. 

La  Chouette,  4  Goualeuse  will  not  allow  herself  to  be 
arrested  even  at  the  corps-de-garde.  She  will  declare 
that  we  have  carried  her  off,  and  give  information 
against  us ;  and,  supposing  even  that  she  goes  to  prison, 
she  will  write  to  her  protectors,  and  all  will  be  dis- 
covered.' '  No,  she  will  go  to  prison  willingly,'  answered 
the  Schoolmaster ;  *  and  she  shall  take  an  oath  not  to 
give  any  information  against  any  person  as  long  as  she 
is  in  St.  Lazare,  nor  afterwards,  either.  This  is  a  debt 
she  owes  me,  for  I  prevented  you  from  disfiguring  her, 
La  Chouette,  and  saved  her  from  being  drowned  at  Bras 
Rouge's;  but  if,  after  having  sworn  not  to  speak,  she 
dares  to  do  so,  we  will  attack  the  farm  at  Bouqueval 
with  fire  and  blood  ! '  Then,  addressing  me,  the  School- 
master added, '  Decide,  then  :  take  the  oath  I  demand  of 
you,  and  you  shall  get  off  for  three  months  in  prison ; 
if  not,  I  abandon  you  to  La  Chouette,  who  will  take 
you  to  Bras  Rouge's,  where  you  will  be  drowned, 
and  we  will  set  Bouqueval  farm  on  fire.  So,  come, 
decide.  I  know,  if  you  take  the  oath,  you  will  keep 
it.'" 

"  And  you  did  swear  ?  " 

"  Alas,  yes,  madame  !  I  was  so  fearful  they  would  do 
my  protectors  at  the  farm  an  injury,  and  then  I  so  much 
dreaded  being  drowned  by  La  Chouette  in  a  cellar,  it 
seemed  so  frightful  to  me ;  another  death  would  have 
seemed  to  me  less  horrid,  and,  perhaps,  I  should  not 
have  tried  to  escape  it." 

"  What  a  dreadful  idea  at  your  age  ! "  said  Madame 
d'Harville,  looking  at  La  Goualeuse  with  surprise. 
"  When  you  have  left  this  place,  and  have  been  restored 
to  your  benefactors,  shall  you  not  be  very  happy  ?  Has 
not  your  repentance  effaced  the  past  ?" 

"  Can  the  past  ever  be  effaced  ?  Can  the  past  ever  be 
forgotten  ?  Can  repentance  kill  memory,  madame  ? " 
exclaimed  Fleur-de-Marie,  in  a  tone  so  despairing  that 
Clemence  shuddered. 

295 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  But  all  faults  are  retrieved,  unhappy  girl  !  " 

"  And  the  remembrance  of  stain,  madame,  does  not 
that  become  more  and  more  terrible  in  proportion  as  the 
soul  becomes  purer,  in  proportion  as  the  mind  becomes 
more  elevated  ?  Alas,  the  higher  we  ascend,  the  deeper 
appears  the  abyss  which  we  have  quitted ! " 

"  Then  you  renounce  all  hope  of  restoration  —  of 
pardon  ?  " 

"  On  the  part  of  others  —  no,  madame,  your  kindness 
proves  to  me  that  remorse  will  find  indulgence." 

"  But  you  will  be  pitiless  towards  yourself  ?" 

"  Others,  madame,  may  not  know,  pardon,  or  forget 
what  I  have  been,  but  I  shall  never  forget  it ! " 

"  And  do  you  sometimes  desire  to  die  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  !  "  said  Goualeuse,  smiling  bitterly.  Then, 
after  a  moment's  silence,  she  added,  "  Sometimes,  —  yes, 
madame." 

"  Still  you  were  afraid  of  being  disfigured  by  that 
horrid  woman ;  and  so  you  wish  to  preserve  your  beauty, 
my  poor  little  girl.  That  proves  that  life  has  still  some 
attraction  for  you  ;  so  courage  !    Courage  !  " 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  weakness  to  think  of  it,  but  if  I  were 
handsome,  as  you  say,  madame,  I  should  like  to  die 
handsome,  pronouncing  the  name  of  my  benefactor." 

Madame  d'Harville's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Fleur-de- 
Marie  had  said  these  last  words  with  so  much  simplicity ; 
her  angelic,  pale,  depressed  features,  her  melancholy 
smile,  were  all  so  much  in  accord  with  her  words,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  doubt  the  reality  of  her  sad  desire. 
Madame  d'Harville  was  endued  with  too  much  delicacy 
not  to  feel  how  miserable,  how  fatal,  was  this  thought  of 
La  Goualeuse :  "  I  shall  never  forget  what  I  have  been !  " 
—  the  fixed,  permanent,  incessant  idea  which  controlled 
and  tortured  Fleur-de-Marie's  life.  Cle'mence,  ashamed 
at  having  for  an  instant  misconstrued  the  ever  disinter- 
ested generosity  of  the  prince,  regretted  also  that  she 
had  for  a  moment  allowed  herself  to  be  actuated  by  any 
296 


THE  PROTECTRESS. 


feeling  of  absurd  jealousy  against  La  Goualeuse,  who, 
with  such  pure  excitement,  expressed  her  gratitude 
towards  her  protector.  It  was  strange  that  the  admira- 
tion which  this  poor  prisoner  felt  so  deeply  towards 
Rodolph  perhaps  increased  the  profound  love  which 
C16mence  must  for  ever  conceal  from  him.  She  said,  to 
drive  away  these  thoughts : 

"  I  trust  that,  for  the  future,  you  will  be  less  severe 
towards  yourself.  But  let  us  talk  of  this  oath,  for  now 
I  can  explain  your  silence.  You  will  not  denounce  these 
wretches  ?" 

"  Although  the  Schoolmaster  shared  in  my  carrying 
off,  yet  he  twice  defended  me,  and  I  would  not  be 
ungrateful  towards  him." 

"  Then  you  lent  yourself  to  the  plans  of  these 
monsters  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame,  I  was  so  frightened  !  The  Chouette 
went  to  seek  for  Bras  Rouge,  who  conducted  me  to  the 
guard-house,  saying  he  had  found  me  roving  near  his 
cabaret.  I  did  not  deny  it,  and  so  they  took  me  into 
custody  and  brought  me  here." 

"  But  your  friends  at  the  farm  must  be  in  the  utmost 
anxiety  about  you  !  " 

"  Alas,  madame,  in  my  great  alarm,  I  did  not  reflect 
that  my  oath  would  prevent  me  from  assuring  them  of 
my  safety.  Now  that  makes  me  wretched !  But  I  think 
(and  hope  you  think  so,  too)  that,  without  breaking  my 
word,  I  may  beg  of  you  to  write  to  Madame  Georges  at 
the  farm  of  Bouqueval,  and  assure  her  that  she  need  have 
no  fears  for  me,  without  informing  her  where  I  am;  for 
I  have  promised  to  be  silent." 

"  My  child,  these  precautions  will  be  useless  if,  at  my 
recommendation,  you  are  pardoned.  To-morrow  you 
will  return  to  the  farm  without  having  betrayed  your 
oath  by  that ;  and  you  may  consult  your  friends  here- 
after to  know  how  far  you  are  bound  by  a  promise  which 
was  extorted  from  you  by  a  threat." 

297 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  You  believe  then,  madame,  that,  thanks  to  your 
kindness,  I  may  hope  to  leave  here  very  soon  ? " 

"  You  deserve  my  interest  so  much  that  I  am  sure  I 
shall  succeed,  and  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  the  day  after 
to-morrow  you  may  rely  on  going  in  person  to  your 
benefactors." 

"  So  soon  !  Madame,  how  have  I  deserved  so  much 
goodness  on  your  part?  How  can  I  ever  repay  your 
kindness  ?  " 

"  By  continuing  to  behave  as  you  have  done.  I  only 
regret  that  I  cannot  do  anything  towards  your  future 
existence ;  that  is  a  pleasure  which  your  friends  have 
reserved  for  themselves." 

At  this  moment  Madame  Armand  entered  abruptly, 
and  with  a  troubled  air. 

"  Madame  la  Marquise,"  she  said,  addressing  Clemence 
with  hesitation,  "  I  am  deeply  pained  with  a  message  I 
have  to  convey  to  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  madame  ?  " 

"  The  Duke  de  Lucenay  is  below,  just  come  from  your 
house,  madame." 

"  La,  how  you  frighten  me !    What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  madame ;  but  M.  de  Lucenay 
has,  he  told  me,  some  very  distressing  information 
to  communicate  to  you.  He  learnt  from  the  duchess, 
his  lady,  that  you  were  here,  and  has  come  in  great 
haste." 

"  Distressing  information  !  "  said  Madame  d'Harville 
to 'herself;  then  she  suddenly  shrieked  out,  in  agonised 
accents,  "  My  daughter,  my  daughter,  my  daughter, 
perhaps  !    Oh,  speak,  madame  ! " 

"  I  do  not  know,  your  ladyship." 

"Oh,  for  mercy's  sake  —  for  mercy's  sake,  take  me 
to  M.  de  Lucenay ! "  cried  Madame  d'Harville,  rush- 
ing out  with  a  bewildered  air,  followed  by  Madame 
Armand. 

"  Poor  mother  !    She  fears  for  her  child  !  "  said  La 

298 


THE  PKOTECTRESS. 

Goualeuse,  following  Cle'inence  with  her  eyes.  "  Oh, 
no,  it  is  impossible !  At  the  very  moment  when 
she  was  so  benevolent  and  kind  to  me  such  a  blow 
could  not  strike  her!  No,  no;  once  again  I  say  it 
is  impossible ! " 


299 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  FORCED  FRIENDSHIP. 

We  shall  now  conduct  the  reader  to  the  house  in  the 
Rue  du  Temple,  about  three  o'clock  on  the  day  in  which 
M.  d'Harville  terminated  his  existence.  At  the  time 
mentioned,  the  conscientious  and  indefatigable  M.  Pipelet 
sat  alone  in  his  lodge,  occupied  in  repairing  the  boot 
which  had,  more  than  once,  fallen  from  his  hand  during 
Cabrion's  last  attack  ;  the  physiognomy  of  the  delicate- 
minded  porter  was  dejected,  and  exhibited  a  more  than 
usually  melancholy  air. 

All  at  once  a  loud  and  shrill  voice  was  heard  calling 
from  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  exclaiming,  in  tones 
which  reechoed  down  the  staircase : 

"  M.  Pipelet !  M.  Pipelet !  Make  haste  !  Come  up  as 
fast  as  you  can !    Madame  Pipelet  is  taken  very  ill !  " 

"  God  bless  me  ! "  cried  Alfred,  rising  from  his  stool. 
"  Anastasie  ill !  "  But,  quickly  resuming  his  seat,  he 
said  to  himself,  "  What  a  simpleton  I  must  be  to  believe 
such  a  thing !  My  wife  has  been  gone  out  more  than  an 
hour  !  Ah,  but  may  she  not  have  returned  without  my 
observing  it?  Certainly,  such  a  mode  of  proceeding 
would  be  somewhat  irregular,  but  I  am  not  the  less 
bound  to  admit  that  it  is  possible." 

"  M.  Pipelet ! "  called  out  the  up-stairs  voice  again. 
"  Pray  come  as  quickly  as  you  can ;  I  am  holding  your 
wife  in  my  arms  !  " 

"  Holloa ! "  said  Pipelet,  springing  up  abruptly. 
"  Somebody  got  my  wife  in  his  arms ! " 

300 


THE  FORCED  FRIENDSHIP. 


"  I  really  cannot  manage  to  unlace  Madame  Pipelet's 
stays  by  myself ! "  screamed  out  the  voice,  in  tones 
louder  than  before. 

These  words  perfectly  electrified  Alfred,  and  the 
blush  of  offended  modesty  empurpled  his  melancholy 
features. 

"  Sir-r-r ! "  cried  he  in  a  stentorian  voice,  as  he 
rushed  frantically  from  his  lodge.  "  Sir-r-r !  I  adjure 
you,  in  the  name  of  Honour,  to  leave  my  wife  and 
her  stays  alone !    I  come  !  I  come  !  " 

And  so  saying,  Alfred  dashed  into  the  dark  labyrinth 
called  a  staircase,  forgetting,  in  his  excitement,  to  close 
the  door  of  the  lodge  after  him. 

Scarcely  had  he  quitted  it  than  an  individual  entered 
quickly,  snatched  from  the  table  the  cobbler's  hammer, 
sprung  on  the  bed,  and,  by  means  of  four  small  tacks, 
previously  inserted  into  each  corner  of  a  thick  cardboard 
he  carried  with  him,  nailed  the  cardboard  to  the  back  of 
the  dark  recess  in  which  stood  Pipelet's  bed ;  then  dis- 
appeared as  quickly  as  he  had  come.  So  expeditiously 
was  the  operation  performed,  that  the  porter,  having 
almost  immediately  recollected  his  omission  respecting 
the  closing  the  lodge  door,  hastily  descended,  and  both 
shut  and  locked  it ;  then  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket, 
returned  with  all  speed  to  succour  his  wife  above-stairs, 
without  the  slightest  suspicion  crossing  his  mind  that 
any  foot  had  trod  there  since  his  own.  Having  taken 
this  precautionary  measure,  Alfred  again  darted  off  to 
the  assistance  of  Anastasie,  exclaiming,  with  all  the 
power  of  his  lungs : 

"  Sir-r-r !  I  come !  Behold  me !  I  place  my  wife 
beneath  the  safeguard  of  your  delicacy !  " 

But  a  fresh  surprise  awaited  the  worthy  porter,  and 
had  well-nigh  caused  him  to  fall  from  the  height  he  had 
ascended  to  the  sill  of  his  own  lodge,  —  the  voice  of 
her  he  expected  to  find  fainting  in  the  arms  of  some 
unknown  individual  was  now  heard,  not  from  the  upper 
801 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


part  of  the  house,  but  at  the  entrance  !  In  well-known 
accents,  but  sharper  and  shriller  than  usual,  he  heard 
Anastasie  exclaim: 

"  Why,  Alfred  !  What  do  you  mean  by  leaving  the 
lodge  ?    Where  have  you  got  to,  you  old  gossip  ?  " 

At  this  appeal,  M.  Pipelet  managed  to  descend  as  far 
as  the  first  landing,  where  he  remained  petrified  with 
astonishment,  gazing  downwards  with  fixed  stare,  open 
mouth,  and  one  foot  drawn  up  in  the  most  ludicrous 
manner. 

"  Alfred,  I  say  !  "  screamed  Madame  Pipelet,  a  second 
time,  in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  awake  the  dead. 

"  Anastasie  down  there  ?  Then  it  is  impossible  she 
can  be  ill  up-stairs,"  said  Pipelet,  mentally,  faithful  to  his 
system  of  close  and  logical  argumentation.  "  Whose, 
then,  was  the  manly  voice  that  spoke  of  her  illness,  and 
of  his  undoing  her  stays  ?  An  impostor,  doubtless,  to 
whom  my  distraction  and  alarm  have  been  a  matter 
of  amusement ;  but  what  motive  could  he  have  had  in 
thus  working  upon  my  susceptible  feelings  ?  Something 
very  extraordinary  is  going  on  here.  However,  as  soon 
as  I  have  been  to  answer  my  wife's  inquiry,  I  will  return 
to  clear  up  this  mystery,  and  to  discover  the  person 
whose  voice  summoned  me  in  such  haste." 

In  considerable  agitation  did  M.  Pipelet  descend,  and 
find  himself  in  his  wife's  presence. 

"  It  is  you,  then,  this  time  ? "  inquired  he. 

"  Of  course  it  is  me  ;  who  did  you  expect  it  was  ?  " 

"  'Tis  you,  indeed  !    My  senses  do  not  deceive  me  ! " 

"  Alfred,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Why  do  you 
stand  there,  staring  and  opening  your  mouth,  as  if 
you  meant  to  swallow  me?" 

"  Because  your  presence  reveals  to  me  that  strange 
things  are  passing  here,  so  strange  that  —  " 

"  Oh,  stuff  and  nonsense !  Give  me  the  key  of  the 
lodge !  What  made  you  leave  it  when  I  was  out  ? 
I  have  just  come  from  the  office  where  the  diligence 
302 


THE  FORCED  FRIENDSHIP. 

starts  from  for  Normandy.  I  went  there  in  a  coach  to 
take  M.  Bradamanti's  trunk,  as  he  did  not  wish  that 
little  rascal,  Tortillard,  to  know  anything  about  it, 
since,  it  seems,  he  had  rather  no  one  should  be 
acquainted  with  the  fact  of  his  leaving  Paris  this 
evening;  and,  as  for  his  mistrusting  the  boy,  why,  I 
don't  wonder  at  it." 

Saying  these  words,  Madame  Pipelet  took  the  key 
from  her  husband's  hand,  opened  the  lodge,  and  entered 
it  before  her  partner ;  but  scarcely  were  they  both  safe 
within  its  dark  recesses,  than  an  individual,  lightly 
descending  the  staircase,  passed  swiftly  and  unobserved 
before  the  lodge.  This  personage  was  Cabrion,  who, 
having  managed  to  steal  up-stairs,  had  so  powerfully 
worked  upon  the  porter's  tencter  susceptibilities.  M. 
Pipelet  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  saying  to  his 
wife,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion : 

"  Anastasie,  I  do  not  feel  myself  comfortable  to-day ; 
strange  and  mysterious  things  are  going  on  in  this 
house." 

"  What !  Are  you  going  to  break  out  again  ?  What 
an  old  fool  you  are !  Why,  strange  things  happen  in 
every  house.  What  has  come  over  you  ?  Come,  let's 
look  at  you  !  Well,  I  declare,  you  are  all  of  a  sweat, 
just  as  if  you  had  been  dragged  out  of  the  water  !  What 
have  you  been  doing  since  I  left  you  ?  Overexerting 
yourself,  I  am  sure,  and  I  forbid  you  ever  doing  so. 
La!  Look  how  the  great  drops  pour  from  him,  poor 
old  chick!" 

"  And  well  they  may ! "  exclaimed  M.  Pipelet,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  face,  bathed  in  its  own  dew ;  "  well 
may  I  sweat,  —  ay,  even  blood  and  water,  —  for  there 
are  facts  connected  with  this  house  past  belief  or  com- 
prehension. First,  you  summon  me  up-stairs,  and,  at 
the  same  moment,  I  find  you  waiting  below !  Oh,  it  is 
too,  too  much  for  my  poor  brain !  " 

"  Deuce  take  me,  if  I  can  comprehend  one  word  of  all 
303 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


you  are  saying !  Lord,  help  us !  It  is  to  be  hoped  your 
poor  old  brain  is  not  cracked.  I  tell  you  what,  if  you 
go  on  so,  I  shall  just  set  you  down  for  cracked ;  and  all 
through  that  scamp  of  a  Cabrion,  —  the  devil  take  him ! 
Ever  since  that  last  trick  he  played  the  other  day,  I 
declare  you  have  not  been  yourself,  so  flustered  and 
bewildered !  Do  you  mean  to  live  in  fear  and  dread  of 
that  abominable  painter  all  your  days  ?  " 

But  scarcely  had  Anastasie  uttered  these  words  than 
a  fearful  thing  occurred.  Alfred  continued  sitting,  with 
his  face  turned  towards  the  bed,  while  the  lodge  was 
dimly  illumined  by  the  faint  glimmer  of  a  winter's 
afternoon  and  a  lamp  that  stood  burning  on  the  table, 
near  Alfred's  work.  By  these  doubtful  lights,  M.  Pipe- 
let,  just  as  his  wife  pronounced  the  name  of  Cabrion, 
imagined  he  saw,  in  the  shadow  of  the  recess,  the  half 
stolid,  half  chuckling  features  of  his  enemy.  Alas !  Too 
truly,  there  he  was.  His  steeple-crowned  hat,  his  flow- 
ing locks,  thin  countenance,  sardonic  smile,  pointed 
beard,  and  look  of  fiendish  malice,  all  were  there,  past 
all  mistake.  For  a  moment,  M.  Pipelet  believed  himself 
under  the  influence  of  a  dream,  and  passed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes,  in  hopes  that  the  illusion  might  dis- 
perse ;  but  no ;  there  was  nothing  illusive  in  what  his 
eyes  glared  so  fearfully  upon,  —  nothing  could  be  more 
real  or  positive.  Yet,  horror  of  horrors !  This  object 
seemed  merely  to  possess  a  head,  which,  without  allow- 
ing any  part  of  the  body  to  appear,  grinned  a  satanic 
smile  from  the  dark  draperies  of  the  recess  in  which 
stood  the  bed.  At  this  horrific  vision  M.  Pipelet  fell 
back,  without  uttering  a  word.  With  uplifted  arm  he 
pointed  towards  the  source  of  his  terrors,  but  with  so 
strong  a  manifestation  of  intense  alarm  that  Madame 
Pipelet,  spite  of  her  usual  courage  and  self-possession, 
could  not  help  feeling  a  dread  of  —  she  knew  not  what. 
She  staggered  back  a  few  steps,  then,  seizing  Alfred  by 
the  hand,  exclaimed : 

304 


THE  FORCED  FRIENDSHIP. 


«  Cabrion ! " 

"I  know  it!"  groaned  forth  M.  Pipelet,  in  a  deep, 
hollow  voice,  shutting  his  eyes  to  exclude  the  frightful 
spectre. 

Nothing  could  have  borne  more  flattering  tribute  to 
the  talent  which  had  so  admirably  delineated  the  fea- 
tures of  Cabrion  than  the  overwhelming  terror  his  paste- 
board likeness  occasioned  to  the  worthy  couple  in 
the  lodge ;  but  the  first  surprise  of  Anastasie  over,  she, 
bold  as  a  lioness,  rushed  to  the  bed,  sprang  upon  it, 
and,  though  not  without  some  trepidation,  tore  the 
painting  from  the  wall,  against  which  it  had  been 
nailed ;  then,  crowning  her  valiant  deed  by  her  accus- 
tomed favourite  expression,  the  amazon  triumphantly 
exclaimed : 

"  Get  along  with  you  !  " 

Alfred,  on  the  contrary,  remained  with  closed  eyes 
and  extended  hands,  fixed  and  motionless,  according  to 
his  wont  during  the  most  critical  passages  of  his  life ; 
the  continued  oscillation  of  his  bell-crowned  hat  alone 
revealing,  from  time  to  time,  the  violence  of  his  internal 
emotions. 

"  Open  your  eyes,  my  old  duck  ! "  cried  Madame  Pipe- 
let,  triumphantly.  "  It  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  only 
a  picture,  a  portrait  of  that  scoundrel  Cabrion.  Look 
here,  lovey,  —  look  at  'Stasie  stamping  on  it !  "  continued 
the  indignant  wife,  throwing  the  painting  on  the  ground, 
and  jumping  upon  it  with  all  her  force ;  then  added, 
"  Ah,  I  wish  I  had  the  villain  here,  to  serve  the  same ! 
I'll  warrant  I'd  mark  him  for  life  !  "  Then,  picking  up 
the  portrait,  she  said,  "  Well,  I've  served  you  out,  any- 
how !    Just  look,  old  dear,  if  I  haven't !  " 

But  poor  Alfred,  with  a  disconsolate  shake  of  the 
head,  made  signs  that  he  had  rather  not,  and  further 
intimating,  by  expressive  gestures,  his  earnest  desire 
that  his  wife  would  remove  the  detested  likeness  of  his 
bitter  foe  far  from  his  view. 

305 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


"  Well,"  cried  the  porteress,  examining  the  portrait  by 
the  aid  of  the  lamp,  "  was  there  ever  such  imperance  ? 
Why,  Alfred,  the  vile  feller  has  presumed  to  write  in  red 
letters  at  the  bottom  of  the  picture, '  To  my  dear  friend 
Pipelet ;  presented  by  his  friend  for  life,  Cabrion ! '  " 

"  For  life ! "  groaned  Pipelet ;  then,  heaving  a  deep 
sigh,  he  added,  "  Yes,  'tis  my  life  he  aims  at ;  and  he 
will  finish  by  taking  it.  I  shall  exist,  from  this  day  for- 
ward, in  a  state  of  continual  alarm,  believing  that  the 
fiend  who  torments  me  is  ever  near,  —  hid,  perhaps,  in 
the  floor,  the  wall,  the  ceiling,  and  thence  watches  me 
throughout  the  day ;  or  even  at  night,  when  sleeping  in 
the  chaste  arms  of  my  wife,  his  eye  is  still  on  me.  And 
who  can  tell  but  he  is  at  this  very  instant  behind  me, 
gazing  with  that  well-known  sardonic  grin ;  or  crouched 
down  in  some  corner  of  the  room,  like  a  deadly  reptile ! 
Say,  you  monster,  are  you  there^  Are  you  there,  I 
demand  ? "  cried  M.  Pipelet,  accompanying  this  furious 
adjuration  by  a  sort  of  circular  motion  of  the  head,  as 
though  wishing  to  interrogate  every  nook  and  corner  of 
the  lodge. 

"  Yes,  dear  friend,  here  I  am!"  answered  the  well- 
known  voice  of  Cabrion,  in  blandly  affectionate  tones. 

By  a  simple  trick  in  ventriloquism,  these  words  were 
made  to  appear  as  though  issuing  from  the  recess  in 
which  stood  the  bed ;  but  the  malicious  joker  was 
in  reality  close  to  the  door  of  the  lodge,  enjoying  every 
particular  look  and  word  that  passed  within.  However, 
after  uttering  the  last  few  words,  he  prudently  disap- 
peared with  all  haste,  though  not  (as  will  be  seen) 
without  leaving  his  victim  a  fresh  subject  for  rage, 
astonishment,  and  meditation. 

Madame  Pipelet,  still  skeptical  and  courageous,  care- 
fully examined  under  the  bed,  as  well  as  in  every  corner 
of  the  lodge,  but,  discovering  no  trace  of  the  enemy, 
actually  went  out  into  the  alley  to  prosecute  her  re- 
searches ;  while  M.  Pipelet,  completely  crushed  by  this 
306 


THE  FORCED  FRIENDSHIP. 


last  blow,  fell  back  into  his  chair  in  a  state  of  boundless 
despair. 

"  Never  mind,  Alfred ! "  said  Anastasie,  who  always 
exhibited  great  determination  upon  all  critical  occa- 
sions. "  Bless  you  !  The  villain  had  managed  to  hide 
himself  somewhere  near  the  door,  and,  while  we  were 
looking  in  one  direction,  he  managed  to  slip  out  in 
another.  But  just  wait  a  bit :  I  shall  catch  him  one  of 
these  days,  and  then  see  if  I  don't  make  him  taste  my 
broomstick !    Let  him  take  care,  that's  all !  " 

The  door  opened  as  she  concluded  this  animating 
address,  and  Madame  Seraphin,  the  housekeeper  of  the 
notary,  Jacques  Ferrand,  entered  the  lodge. 

"  Good  day,  Madame  Se'raphin,"  said  Madame  Pipelet, 
who,  in  her  extreme  anxiety  to  conceal  her  domestic 
troubles  from  a  stranger,  assumed  all  at  once  a  most 
gracious  and  winning  manner ;  "  what  can  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  doing  for  you  ? " 

"Why,  first  of  all,  tell  me  what  is  the  meaning  of 
your  new  sign  ? " 

"  Our  new  sign  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  the  small  printed  board." 

«  Printed  board  !  " 

"  To  be  sure ;  that  black  board  with  red  letters, 
hung  over  the  door  leading  from  the  alley  up  to  your 
lodge." 

"  What,  out  in  the  street  ? " 

"  In  the  street,  I  tell  you,  precisely  over  your  door." 
"  I  wish  I  may  die  if  I  understand  a  single  word  of 
what  you  are  talking  about !    Do  you,  old  dear  ? " 
Alfred  spoke  not. 

"  Certainly,"  continued  Madame  Seraphin,  "  since  it 
relates  to  M.  Pipelet,  he  can  best  explain  to  me  what 
this  board  means." 

Alfred  uttered  a  sort  of  heavy,  inarticulate  groan, 
while  his  bell-crowned  hat  recommenced  its  convul- 
sive agitations.  This  pantomimic  action  was  meant 
307 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


to  express  that  Alfred  was  in  no  condition  to  explain 
anything  to  anybody,  having  his  mind  already  suffi- 
ciently burdened  with  an  infinity  of  problematical 
questions  he  sought  in  vain  to  solve. 

"  Don't  take  any  notice  of  poor  dear  Alfred,  Madame 
SeVaphin ;  he  has  got  the  cramp  in  his  stomach,  and 
that  makes  him  so  very  —  But  what  is  this  board  of 
which  you  were  speaking  ?  Very  likely  it  has  just  been 
put  up  by  the  man  who  keeps  the  wine-shop  at  the 
corner." 

"  I  tell  you  again  it  is  no  such  thing.  It  is  a  small 
painted  board,  hung  up  over  your  door,  —  I  mean  the 
door  leading  from  the  alley  to  the  street." 

"  Ah,  you  are  laughing  at  us  ! " 

"  Indeed  I  am  not.  I  saw  it  just  now,  as  I  came  in ; 
on  it  is  written,  in  large  letters,  '  Pipelet  and  Cabrion, 
dealers  in  Friendship  and  similar  Articles.  Inquire  of 
the  Porter.' " 

"  Gracious  goodness !  Do  you  hear  that,  Alfred  ?  Do 
you  hear  what  is  written  up  over  our  door  ?" 

Alfred  gazed  at  Madame  S^raphin  with  a  bewildered 
look,  but  he  neither  understood  nor  sought  to  understand 
her  meaning. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  continued  Madame  Pipelet, 
confounded  by  this  fresh  audacity,  "  that  you  positively 
saw  a  little  board  out  in  the  street  with  all  that  about 
Alfred  and  Cabrion,  and  dealing. in  friendship?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  just  seen  it,  and  read  with  my  own 
eyes  what  I  described,  to  you.  '  Well,'  said  I  to  myself, 
4  this  is  droll  enough !  M.  Pipelet  is  a  shoemaker  by 
trade,  but  here  he  writes  up  publicly  that  he  is  a  dealer 
in  friendship  along  with  a  M.  Cabrion !  What  can  all  this 
mean  ?  There  is  something  meant  more  than  meets  the 
eye ! '  Still,  as  the  board  further  directed  all  persons 
desirous  of  knowing  more  to  apply  to  the  porter,  4  Oh,' 
thinks  I, '  Madame  Pipelet  can  explain  all  this  to  me ! ' 
But,  look,  look ! "  cried  Madame  Seraphin,  suddenly 
308 


THE  FORCED  FRIENDSHIP. 


breaking  off  in  her  remarks.  "  Your  husband  is  taken  ill ! 
Mind  what  you  are  about,  or  he  will  fall  backwards  !  " 

Madame  Pipelet  flew  to  her  afflicted  partner,  and  was 
just  in  time  to  receive  him,  half  fainting,  in  her  arms. 
The  last  blow  had  been  too  overwhelming,  —  the  man 
in  the  bell-crowned  hat  had  but  just  strength  left  to 
murmur  forth,  "  The  scoundrel  has,  then,  publicly 
placarded  me  ! " 

"  I  told  you,  Madame  Se'raphin,  that  poor  Alfred  was 
suffering  dreadful  with  the  cramp  in  his  stomach,  besides 
being  worried  to  death  by  a  crack-brained  vagabond,  who 
is  at  him  night  and  day :  he'll  be  the  death  of  my  poor 
old  duck  at  last.  Never  mind,  darling,  I've  got  a  nice 
little  drop  of  aniseed  to  give  you ;  so  drink  it,  and  see  if 
you  can't  shake  your  old  feathers  and  be  yourself  again  !  " 

Thanks  to  the  timely  application  of  Madame  Pipelet's 
infallible  remedy,  Alfred  gradually  recovered  his  senses ; 
but,  alas,  scarcely  was  he  restored  to  full  consciousness 
ere  he  was  subjected  to  another  and  equally  cruel  trial 
of  his  feelings ! 

An  individual  of  middle  age,  respectably  dressed,  and 
possessing  a  countenance  so  simple,  or  rather  so  silly,  as 
to  render  it  impossible  to  suspect  him  of  any  malice  pre- 
pense or  intended  irony,  opened  the  upper  and  glazed 
part  of  the  lodge  door,  saying,  with  the  most  genuine 
air  of  mystification: 

"I  have  just  read  on  a  small  board  placed  over  the 
door,  at  the  entrance  to  the  alley,  the  following  words : 
'  Pipelet  and  Cabrion,  dealers  in  Friendship  and  similar 
Articles.  Inquire  of  the  Porter.'  Will  you  oblige  me 
by  explaining  the  meaning  of  those  words,  if  you  are,  as 
I  presume  you  to  be,  the  porter  in  question  ?  " 

"  The  meaning ! "  exclaimed  M.  Pipelet,  in  a  voice 
of  thunder,  and  giving  vent  at  length  to  his  so  long 
restrained  indignation ;  "  the  meaning  is  simply, 
sir-r-r,  that  M.  Cabrion  is  an  infamous  scoundrel, — an 
impostor ! " 

309 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


The  simple-looking  interrogator  drew  back,  in  dread 
of  the  consequences  that  might  follow  this  sudden  and 
furious  burst  of  wrath,  while,  wrought  up  to  a  state  of 
fury,  Alfred  leaned  over  the  half  door  of  the  lodge,  his 
glaring  eyeballs  and  clenched  hands  indicating  the  inten- 
sity of  his  feelings ;  while  the  figures  of  Madame  Sera- 
phin  and  Anastasie  were  dimly  revealed  amid  the  murky 
shades  of  the  small  room. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  sir-r-r ! "  cried  M.  Pipelet,  address- 
ing the  placid-looking  man  at  the  door,  "  that  I  have  no 
dealings  with  that  beggar  Cabrion,  and  certainly  none 
in  the  way  of  friendship ! " 

"  No,  that  I'm  sure  you  have  not ! "  screamed  out 
Madame  Pipelet,  in  confirmation  of  her  husband's 
words ;  adding,  as  she  displayed  her  forbidding  coun- 
tenance over  her  husband's  shoulder,  "  and  I  wonder 
very  much  where  that  old  dunderhead  has  come  from 
to  ask  such  a  stupid  question  ? " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,"  said  the  guileless-look- 
ing individual  thus  addressed,  again  withdrawing  another 
step  to  escape  the  concentrated  anger  of  the  enraged  pair ; 
"placards  are  made  to  be  read, —  you  put  out  a  board, 
which  I  read,  —  now  allow  me  to  say  that  I  am  not  to 
blame  for  perusing  what  you  set  up  purposely  to  attract 
attention,  but  that  you  are  decidedly  wrong  to  insult 
me  so  grossly  when  I  civilly  come  to  you,  as  your  own 
board  desires,  for  information." 

"  Oh,  you  old  fool !  Get  along  with  you  ! "  exclaimed 
Anastasie,  with  a  most  hideous  distortion  of  visage. 

"  You  are  a  rude,  unmannerly  woman !  " 

"  Alfred,  deary,  just  fetch  me  your  boot-jack  :  I'll  give 
that  old  chatterer  such  a  mark  that  his  own  mother  shall 
not  know  her  darling  again  !  " 

"  Really,  madame,  I  can't  say  I  understand  receiving 
such  rough  treatment  when  I  come,  by  your  own  direc- 
tions, to  make  inquiries  respecting  what  you  or  your 
husband  have  publicly  notified  in  the  streets." 

310 


THE  FORCED  FRIENDSHIP. 


"  But,  sir-r-r  —  !  "  cried  the  unhappy  porter. 

"  Sir !  "  interrupted  the  hitherto  placid  inquirer,  now 
worked  up  into  extreme  rage,  "  Sir !  You  may  carry 
your  friendship  with  your  M.  Cabrion  as  far  as  you 
please,  but,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  you  have  no  busi- 
ness to  parade  yourself  or  your  friendships  in  the  face 
of  everybody  in  the  streets.  And  I  think  it  right,  sir,  to 
let  you  know  a  bit  of  my  mind ;  which  is,  that  you  are 
a  boasting  braggart,  and  that  I  shall  go  at  once  and  lay 
a  formal  complaint  against  you  at  the  police  office." 
Saying  which,  the  individual  departed  in  an  apparently 
towering  passion. 

"  Anastasie,"  moaned  out  poor  Pipelet,  in  a  dolorous 
voice,  "  I  shall  never  survive  all  this !  I  feel  but  too 
surely  that  I  am  struck  with  death,  —  I  have  not  a  hope 
of  escape !  You  hear  my  name  is  publicly  exposed  in 
the  open  streets,  in  company  with  that  scoundrel's  !  He 
has  dared  to  placard  the  hideous  tale  of  my  having 
entered  into  a  treaty  of  friendship  with  him !  And  the 
innocent,  unsuspecting  public  will  read  the  hateful  state- 
ment—  remember  it  —  repeat  it — spread  the  detestable 
report !  Oh,  monstrous,  enormous,  devilish  invention  ! 
None  but  a  fiend  could  have  had  such  a  thought.  But 
there  must  be  an  end  to  this.  The  measure  is  full,  —  ay, 
to  overflowing;  and  things  have  come  to  such  a  pass 
that  either  this  accursed  painter  or  myself  must  perish 
in  the  deadly  struggle ! "  And,  wrought  up  to  such  a 
state  of  vigorous  resolution  as  to  completely  conquer  his 
usual  apathy,  M.  Pipelet  seized  the  portrait  of  Cabrion 
and  rushed  towards  the  door. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Alfred  ?  "  screamed  the  wife. 

"  To  the  commissary  of  police,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
to  tear  down  that  vile  board !  Then,  bearing  the  board 
in  one  hand  and  the  portrait  in  the  other,  I  will  cry 
aloud  to  the  commissary,  '  Defend,  avenge  an  injured 
man !    Deliver  me  from  Cabrion  ! '  " 

"  So  do,  old  darling !    There,  hold  up  your  head  and 

311 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


pluck  up  courage !  And  I  tell  you  what,  if  the  board  is 
too  high  for  you  to  reach,  ask  the  man  at  the  wine-shop 
to  lend  you  his  small  ladder.  That  blackguard  of  a 
Cabrion !  I  only  wish  I  had  him  in  my  power,  I'd  fry 
him  for  half  an  hour  in  my  largest  stew-pan !  Why, 
scores  of  people  have  been  publicly  executed  who  did  not 
deserve  death  a  quarter  as  much  as  he  does !  The  vil- 
lain !  I  should  like  to  see  him  just  ready  to  have  the 
guillotine  dropped  upon  his  head.  Wouldn't  I  give  him 
my  blessing  in  a  friendly  way  ?    A  rascal ! " 

Alfred,  amid  all  his  woes,  yet  displayed  a  rare  mag- 
nanimity, contrasting  strongly  with  the  vindictive  spirit 
of  his  partner. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he  ;  "  spite  of  the  wrongs  he  has  done 
me,  I  would  not,  even  if  his  life  were  in  my  power, 
'  demand  his  head  !  "' 

"  But  I  would !  I  would  !  I  would !  "  vociferated  the 
ferocious  Anastasie.  "  If  he  had  fifty  heads,  I  would 
demand  every  one  of  them  !  I  would  not  leave  him  one  ! 
But  go  along ;  make  haste,  Alfred,  and  set  the  commis- 
sary of  police  to  work  upon  him." 

"  No,"  cried  Alfred,  "  I  desire  not  his  blood ;  but  I 
have  a  right  to  demand  the  perpetual  imprisonment  of 
this  malicious  being.  My  repose  requires  it,  —  my  health 
peremptorily  calls  for  it.  The  laws  of  my  country  must 
either  grant  me  this  reparation  for  all  I  have  suffered,  01 
I  quit  France.  Yes,  beautiful  and  beloved  France  !  I  turn 
my  back  on  you  for  ever !  And  that  is  all  an  ungrate- 
ful nation  would  gain  by  neglecting  to  heal  the  wounds 
of  my  tortured  mind  ; "  and,  bending  beneath  the  weight 
of  his  grief,  Alfred  majestically  quitted  the  lodge,  like 
one  of  the  ancient  victims  of  all-conquering  Fatality. 


312 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


CECILY. 

Before  we  introduce  the  reader  to  the  conversation 
between  Madame  S^raphin  and  Madame  Pipelet,  we  must 
premise  that  Anastasie,  without  entertaining  the  very 
slightest  suspicion  of  the  virtue  and  piety  of  the  notary, 
felt  the  greatest  indignation  at  the  severity  manifested 
by  him  in  the  case  both  of  Louise  Morel  and  M.  Ger- 
main ;  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  the  angry  porteress 
included  Madame  Sdraphin  in  the  same  censure ;  but 
still,  like  a  skilful  politician,  Madame  Pipelet,  for  rea- 
sons we  shall  hereafter  explain,  concealed  her  dislike  to 
the  femme-de-charge  under  the  appearance  of  the  greatest 
cordiality.  After  having  explicitly  declared  her  extreme 
disapprobation  of  the  conduct  pursued  by  Cabrion,  Ma- 
dame SeVaphin  went  on  to  say : 

"By  the  way,  what  has  become  of  M.  Bradamanti 
Polidori  ?  I  wrote  to  him  yesterday  evening,  but  got  no 
reply ;  this  morning  I  came  to  see  him,  but  he  was  not 
to  be  found.  I  trust  I  shall  be  more  fortunate  this 
time." 

Madame  Pipelet  affected  the  most  lively  regret. 

"  Really,"  cried  she, "  you  are  doomed  to  be  unlucky ! " 

"How  so?" 

"  M.  Bradamanti  has  not  yet  returned." 
"  Upon  my  word,  this  is  enough  to  tire  a  saint !  " 
"  So  it  is,  I  declare,  Madame  Se'raphin.    I'm  sure  I'm 
as  sorry  about  it  as  if  it  was  my  own  self." 
"  I  had  so  much  to  say  to  him." 

313 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"It  is  all  for  the  world  as  though  you  were 
bewitched ! " 

"  Why,  yes,  it  is  so  much  the  more  vexatious,  because 
I  have  to  find  all  manner  of  excuses  to  run  down  here ; 
for,  if  once  M.  Ferrand  were  to  find  out  that  I  came  to 
consult  a  quack  doctor,  he  who  is  so  devout,  so  scrupu- 
lous in  all  things,  we  should  have  a  fearful  scene !  " 

"  La !  He  is  just  like  Alfred,  who  is  so  silly  that 
really  he  is  afraid  of  everything  and  everybody !  " 

"  And  you  do  not  know,  I  suppose,  when  M.  Brada- 
manti  will  return  home  ?  " 

"  No,  not  precisely ;  but  I  know  very  well  that  he 
expects  some  one  about  six  or  seven  o'clock  this  evening, 
for  he  told  me  to  request  the  person  to  call  again,  should 
he  not  be  at  home  at  the  time  mentioned.  So,  if  you  will 
call  again  in  the  evening,  you  will  be  sure  to  see  him." 

But,  as  Anastasie  said  these  words,  she  mentally 
added,  "  I  would  not  have  you  too  sure  of  that ;  in  an 
hour's  time  he  will  be  on  his  road  to  Normandy ! " 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Madame  Se'raphin,  with  an  air 
of  considerable  chagrin.  Then,  pausing  a  brief  space, 
she  added,  "I  had  also  something  to  say  to  you,  my 
dear  Madame  Pipelet.  You  know,  I  suppose,  what  hap- 
pened to  that  girl,  Louise  Morel,  whom  everybody 
thought  so  good  and  virtuous  —  " 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  mention  her !  "  replied  Madame  Pipe- 
let,  rolling  her  eyes  with  affected  horror.  "  It  makes  one's 
hair  stand  on  end." 

"  I  merely  alluded  to  her  by  way  of  saying  that  we 
are  now  quite  without  a  servant,  and  that,  if  you  should 
chance  to  hear  of  a  well-disposed,  honest,  and  industrious 
young  person,  I  should  take  it  as  a  favour  if  you  would 
send  her  to  us.  Upon  my  word,  girls  of  good  character 
are  so  difficult  to  be  met  with  that  one  had  need  search 
in  twenty  places  at  once  to  find  one." 

"  Depend  upon  it,  Madame  Se'raphin,  that,  should  I 
hear  of  anybody  likely  to  suit  you,  I  will  let  you  know ; 
314 


CECILY. 


but,  in  my  opinion,  good  situations  are  more  rare  even 
than  good  servants."  Then,  again  relapsing  into  a  fit 
of  abstraction,  Anastasie  added,  though  mentally,  "A 
likely  story  that  I  should  send  any  young  girl  to  be 
starved  to  death  in  your  dungeon  of  a  house ;  your  mas- 
ter is  too  stingy  and  hard-hearted  !  The  idea  of  throwing 
that  poor  Louise  and  M.  Germain  both  in  prison !  " 

"I  need  not  tell  you,"  continued  Madame  Seraphin, 
"  what  a  still,  quiet  house  ours  is ;  any  young  person 
must  be  improved  by  living  in  a  family  where  there  is 
continually  something  to  be  learned ;  and  that  Louise 
must  have  been  naturally  a  depraved  creature,  to  turn 
out  badly  spite  of  the  good  and  religious  advice  bestowed 
on  her  by  M.  Ferrand." 

"  No  doubt ;  but  depend  upon  it  that,  directly  I  hear 
of  a  young  person  likely  to  suit  you,  I  will  be  sure  to  let 
you  know." 

"  There  is  just  one  thing  more  I  should  like  to  men- 
tion," resumed  Madame  Seraphin,  "  and  that  is,  that 
M.  Ferrand  would  greatly  prefer  taking  a  person  who 
had  no  relatives  or  friends,  because  then,  you  under- 
stand, having  no  motive  for  wishing  to  go  out,  she  would 
be  less  exposed  to  danger,  neither  would  her  mind  be  so 
likely  to  be  upset ;  so  that,  if  you  should  happen  to 
meet  with  an  orphan,  I  think  M.  Ferrand  would  prefer 
taking  her,  in  the  first  place,  because  it  would  be  doing 
a  good  action  ;  and,  secondly,  as,  having  neither  friends 
nor  followers,  she  could  not  have  any  excuse  for  wishing 
to  go  out.  I  assure  you  that  wretched  girl,  Louise,  gave 
M.  Ferrand  a  severe  lesson,  I  can  tell  you,  Madame 
Pipelet,  and  one  that  will  make  him  very  careful  what 
sort  of  a  servant  he  engages.  Only  imagine  such  a 
scandalous  affair  occurring  in  a  house  like  ours  !  Dread- 
ful !  Well,  then,  I  will  call  again  this  evening  to  see 
M.  Bradamanti,  and,  at  the  same  time,  I  can  have  a 
little  conversation  with  Mother  Burette." 

"  Then  I  will  say  adieu,  Madame  Se'raphin,  till  this 
315 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


evening,  when  you  will  be  quite  sure  of  finding 
M.  Bradamanti." 

Madame  Seraphin  returned  the  salutation,  and  quitted 
the  lodge. 

"  What  a  deuce  of  a  worry  she  is  in  about  Brada- 
manti !  "  said  Madame  Pipelet,  when  her  visitor  had 
disappeared.  "  I  wonder  what  she  wants  with  him  ?  And 
then,  too,  M.  Bradamanti  is  just  as  anxious  to  avoid  see- 
ing her  before  he  starts  for  Normandy.  I  was  dread- 
fully afraid  she  meant  to  stick  here  till  he  did  return 
home,  and  that  would  have  been  the  more  awkward,  as 
M.  Bradamanti  expects  the  same  lady  who  came  last 
night ;  I  could  not  manage  to  have  a  squint  at  her  then, 
but  I  am  determined  to-night  to  stare  her  regularly  out 
of  countenance,  like  I  did  the  lady  who  came  on  the  sly 
to  visit  my  five-farthing  commandant.  Ah,  the  screw ! 
the  nipcheese !  He  has  never  ventured  to  show  his  face 
here  since.  However,  by  way  of  teaching  him  better,  I 
shall  make  good  use  of  his  wood ;  yes,  yes,  my  fine 
gentleman,  it  shall  keep  the  lodge  warm,  as  well  as  air 
your  shut-up  apartments.  A  disappointed  puppy  !  Ha,  ha, 
ha !  Go,  and  be  hanged  with  your  paltry  twelve  francs 
a  month  !  Better  learn  to  pay  people  honest  wages,  than 
go  flaunting  about  in  a  bright  green  dressing-gown,  like 
a  great  lanky  grasshopper  !  But  who  the  plague  can 
this  lady  of  M.  Bradamanti's  be,  I  wonder  ?  Is  she 
respectable,  or  t'other  ?  I  should  like  to  know,  for  I 
am  as  curious  as  a  magpie ;  but  that  is  not  my  fault ; 
I  am  as  God  made  me,  so  I  can't  help  it.  I  know  one's 
disposition  is  born  with  us,  and  so  the  blame  does  not 
lie  at  my  door.  Stop  a  bit ;  I've  just  thought  of  a  capi- 
tal plan  to  find  out  who  this  lady  really  is ;  and,  what's 
more,  I'll  engage  it  turns  out  successful.  Who  is  that  I 
see  coming  ?  Ah,  my  king  of  lodgers  !  Your  servant, 
M.  Rodolph  ! "  cried  Madame  Pipelet,  saluting  him,  after 
the  military  fashion,  by  placing  the  back  of  her  left  hand 
to  her  wig. 

316 


CECILY. 


It  was,  in  truth,  Rodolph,  who,  as  yet  ignorant  of  the 
death  of  M.  d'Harville,  approached  gaily,  saying  : 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Madame  Pipelet !  Can  you  tell 
me  if  Mile,  Rigolette  is  at  home?  I  have  something 
to  say  to  her,  if  she  is." 

"  At  home,  poor  girl !  Why,  when  is  she  ever  out  ? 
When  does  she  lose  an  hour,  or  idle  instead  of  working  ? " 

"  And  how  gets  on  Morel's  unfortunate  wife  ?  Does 
she  appear  more  reconciled  to  her  misfortunes  ? " 

"Yes,  M.  Rodolph,  I  am  glad  to  say  she  does;  and 
how  can  she  be  otherwise,  when,  thanks  to  you,  or  the 
generous  friend  whose  agent  you  are,  she  is  supplied 
with  every  comfort,  both  for  herself  and  her  children, 
who  are  as  happy  as  fishes  in  the  sea  ?  Why,  they  want 
for  nothing ;  they  have  good  air,  good  food,  good  fires, 
and  good  beds,  with  a  nurse  to  take  care  of  them,  besides 
Mile.  Rigolette,  who,  although  working  like  a  little  busy 
bee,  and  without  seeming  to  take  part  in  their  proceedings, 
never  loses  sight  of  them,  bless  you !  And  they  have 
had  a  black  doctor  to  see  them,  who  says  he  comes  from 
you.  '  Well,'  says  I,  ,  when  I  looked  at  him,  '  you  are  a 
funny  one  for  a  doctor,  you  are  !  I  suppose,  Mr.  Nigger, 
you  are  physician  to  a  company  of  char  coalmen,  because 
there  is  no  fear  of  your  blacking  your  hands  when  you 
feel  their  pulse  ? '  But  la,  M.  Rodolph,  I'm  only  jok- 
ing !  For  what  difference  does  colour  make  ?  Leastways 
your  blacky  seems  to  be  a  first-rate  clever  man,  spite 
of  his  dingy  face,  for  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  order 
a  composing  draught  for  Morel's  wife,  which  did  her  a 
world  of  good !  " 

"  Poor  thing !  I  doubt  not  she  is  still  very  miserable  ?  " 

«  Why,  yes,  M.  Rodolph,  naturally  enough  she  is,  for 
she  has  plenty  of  grief  before  her :  her  husband  in  a 
madhouse,  and  her  daughter  in  prison !  Ah,  that  poor 
Louise !  That  is  the  sorest  of  her  heartaches ;  such 
a  blow  as  that  to  an  honest  family,  such  as  theirs  has 
always  been,  is  not  to  be  got  over  so  easily.  And  that 
317 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Madame  SeVaphin,  housekeeper  to  the  notary,  who  has 
caused  all  this  misery,  has  just  been  here,  saying  all 
manner  of  cruel  things  about  the  poor  girl.  If  I  had 
not  had  my  own  game  to  play,  she  should  not  have  told 
the  tale  quite  her  own  way ;  but  I've  got  a  pill  for  her 
to  swallow  by  and  by,  so  I'll  let  her  off  easy.  Why,  only 
conceive  her  assurance  in  coming  to  ask  me  if  I  could 
not  recommend  her  some  young  person  to  supply  the 
place  of  Louise  in  the  establishment  of  that  old  brute  of 
a  notary.  What  a  blessed  pair  the  master  and  his  house- 
keeper are !  Just  fancy  their  preferring  an  orphan,  if 
they  can  obtain  one,  to  be  their  servant !  Don't  you  see 
through  that,  M.  Rodolph  ?  They  pretend  that  their 
reason  for  wishing  for  an  orphan  is,  because,  having 
neither  parents  nor  friends,  she  would  never  wish  to  go 
out,  and  would  be  more  free  from  interruption  ;  but  that 
is  not  it,  that  is  all  a  fudge ;  the  truth  is,  they  think 
that,  if  they  could  get  a  poor,  friendless  girl  into  their 
clutches,  having  nobody  to  see  her  righted,  they  could 
cheat  her  out  of  her  wages  as  much  as  they  liked.  Now 
is  not  that  true,  M.  Rodolph  ?  " 

"  No  doubt,"  replied  the  person  addressed,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  is  thinking  deeply  on  a  subject. 

The  information  thus  afforded  him  as  to  Madame 
Seraphin  seeking  an  orphan  girl,  to  replace  Louise  as 
servant  in  the  family  of  M.  Ferrand,  appeared  to  present 
the  almost  certain  means  of  accomplishing  the  just  pun- 
ishment of  the  notary;  and,  while  Madame  Pipelet  was. 
yet  speaking,  he  was  arranging  every  point  of  the  part 
he  had  mentally  destined  for  Cecily,  whom  he  purposed 
making  the  principal  instrument  in  effecting  the  retribu- 
tive justice  he  meant  to  inflict  on  the  vile  persecutor  of 
Louise  Morel. 

"  Oh,  I  was  quite  sure  you  would  be  of  my  opinion," 
continued  Madame  Pipelet,  "  and  that  you  would  agree 
with  me  in  thinking  that  their  only  reason  for  desiring 
to  engage  an  orphan  girl  is,  that  they  may  do  her  out  of 

318 


CECILY. 


her  wages ;  and,  I  can  tell  you,  I  would  sooner  drop  down 
dead  than  send  any  poor,  friendless  creature  to  such  a 
house !  Certainly,  I  don't  happen  to  know  of  any  one, 
but,  if  I  knew  of  fifty,  they  should  not  enter  into  such 
a  wretched  house,  if  I  could  hinder  them.  Don't  you 
think  I'm  right,  M.  Rodolph?" 

"  Madame  Pipelet,  will  you  do  me  a  great  favour  ?  " 

"Do  you  a  favour,  M.  Rodolph  ?  Lord  love  your 
heart  and  soul !  Just  say  what  there  is  I  can  do  for 
you,  and  then  see  whether  I  will  or  no.  Come,  what 
is  it  ?  Shall  I  jump  into  the  fire  ?  or  curl  my  best  wig 
with  boiling  oil  ?  or  is  there  anybody  I  can  worry,  bite, 
pinch,  or  scold  for  you?  Only  say  the  word.  I  am 
wholly  at  your  service,  heart  and  body,  your  most 
humble  slave ;  always  stipulating  that  in  my  service 
there  shall  be  no  offence  to  Alfred's  prior  claims 
on  me." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Madame  Pipelet,  make  yourself  per- 
fectly easy!  I  want  you  to  manage  a  little  affair  for 
me,  which  is  this :  I  have  got  to  place  out  a  young 
orphan  girl,  who  is  utterly  a  stranger  to  Paris ;  and 
I  wish  very  much,  with  your  assistance,  to  obtain  for 
her  the  situation  vacant  in  M.  Ferrand's  establishment." 

"  You  don't  mean  it  ?  La,  I  never  can  think  you  are 
in  earnest !  What !  Send  a  poor,  friendless  girl  to  live 
with  such  a  miserly  wretch  as  that  hard-hearted  old 
notary?  No,  no,  M.  Rodolph,  that  was  not  what  you 
wanted  me  to  do,  I'm  sure ! " 

"  But,  indeed,  it  is ;  why,  a  place  is  a  place,  and,  if 
the  young  person  I  mentioned  to  you  should  not  like 
it,  she  is  not  obliged  to  stay  there ;  and  then,  don't  you 
see,  she  would  at  once  be  able  to  maintain  herself,  while 
I  should  have  no  further  uneasiness  about  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  as  far  as  that  goes,  M.  Eodolph,  it  is  your  affair,  not 
mine ;  and,  whatever  happens,  remember  I  warned  you. 
If,  after  all  you  have  heard,  you  still  think  the  place  would 
suit  your  young  friend,  why,  of  course,  you  can  please 
319 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


yourself ;  and,  then,  to  be  sure,  as  far  as  regards  the 
notary,  there  are  always  two  sides  to  every  picture,  a  for 
and  against  to  every  tale ;  he  is  hard-hearted  as  a  flint- 
stone,  obstinate  as  a  jackass,  bigoted  as  a  Jesuit,  that's 
true  enough;  but  then  he  is  of  the  most  scrupulous 
punctuality  in  all  his  affairs ;  he  gives  very  low  wages, 
but,  then,  he  pays  on  the  nail ;  the  living  is  very  bad  at 
his  house,  still  it  is  the  same  one  day  as  another.  In 
a  word,  though  it  is  a  house  where  a  servant  must  work 
like  a  horse,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  one  of  those  dull, 
quiet,  stupid  places,  where  there  is  certainly  nothing  to 
tempt  a  girl  to  get  into  mischief.  Certainly,  Louise 
managed  to  go  wrong,  but  that  was  all  a  chance." 

"  Madame  Pipelet,  I  am  going  to  confide  a  great  secret 
to  your  honour." 

"  Well,  then,  upon  the  word  and  honour  of  Anastasie 
Pipelet,  whose  maiden  name  was  Gulimard,  as  true  as 
there  is  a  God  and  heaven,  and  that  Alfred  always  wears 
green  coats,  I  will  be  silent  as  a  stockfish  !  " 

"  You  must  not  breathe  a  word  to  M.  Pipelet." 

"  That  I  won't,  I  swear  by  the  head  of  that  dear  old 
duck  himself,  if  it  relates  to  a  proper  and  correct 
affair." 

"  Surely,  Madame  Pipelet,  you  have  too  good  an 
opinion  of  me  to  suppose,  for  a  minute,  that  I  would 
insult  your  chaste  ears  with  anything  that  was  not?" 

"  Well,  then,  go  it !  Let's  know  all  about  it,  and, 
I  promise  you,  Alfred  shall  never  be  the  wiser,  be  it 
what  it  may.  Bless  you!  he  is  as  easy  to  cheat  as 
a  child  of  six  years  old." 

"I  rely  implicitly  on  you;  therefore  listen  to  my 
words." 

"  I  will,  my  king  of  lodgers ;  and  remember  that  we 
are  now  sworn  friends  for  life  or  for  death.  So  go  on 
with  your  story." 

"  The  young  person  I  spoke  to  you  about  has,  unfortu- 
nately, committed  one  serious  fault." 

320 


CECILY. 


"  I  was  sure  of  it !  Why,  Lord  bless  you,  if  I  had  not 
married  Alfred  when  I  was  fifteen  years  of  age,  I  dare 
say  I  should  have  committed  fifties  and  hundreds  of 
faults  !  I  ?  There,  just  as  you  see.  I  was  like  a  barrel 
of  gunpowder  at  the  very  sight  or  mention  of  a  smart 
young  fellow.  Luckily  for  me,  Pipelet  extinguished  the 
warmth  of  my  nature  in  the  coolness  of  his  own  virtue  ; 
if  he  had  not,  I  can't  say  what  might  have  happened,  for 
I  did  dearly  love  the  gay  deceivers !  I  merely  mention 
this  to  say  that,  if  the  young  person  has  only  done  wrong 
once,  then  there  are  great  hopes  of  her." 

"  I  trust,  indeed,  she  will  atone  for  her  past  miscon- 
duct. She  was  living  in  service,  in  Germany,  with  a 
relation  of  mine,  and  the  partner  of  her  crime  was  the 
son  of  this  relative.    Do  you  understand  ? " 

"  Do  I  ?  Don't  I  ?  Go  along  with  you !  I  understand 
as  well  as  though  I  had  committed  the  fault  myself." 

"  The  angry  mistress,  upon  discovering  her  servant's 
guilt,  drove  her  from  her  house ;  but  the  young  man 
was  weak  enough  to  quit  his  paternal  roof,  and  to  bring 
the  unfortunate  girl  to  Paris." 

"  Well,  la,  M.  Rodolph  !  What  else  could  you  expect  ? 
Why,  young  people  will  be  young  people.  I'm  sure  I  —  " 

"After  this  act  of  folly  came  stern  reflection,  ren- 
dered still  more  severe  by  the  fact  of  the  slender  stock 
of  money  he  possessed  being  exhausted.  In  this  di- 
lemma, my  young  relation  applied  to  me ;  and  I  con- 
sented to  furnish  him  with  the  means  of  returning  home, 
on  condition  of  his  leaving  behind  him  the  companion 
of  his  flight,  whom  I  undertook  to  place  out  in  some 
respectable  capacity." 

"  Well,  1  declare,  I  could  not  have  done  more  for  a 
son,  if  it  had  pleased  Heaven  —  and  Pipelet  —  that  I 
should  have  had  one !  " 

"I  am  delighted  that  you  approve  of  my  conduct; 
still,  as  the  young  girl  is  a  stranger,  and  has  no  one  to 
give  her  a  recommendation,  I  fear  it  will  be  rather  dif- 
321 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


ficult  to  get  her  placed.  Now,  if  you  would  tell  Madame 
S^raphin  that  a  relation  of  yours,  living  in  Germany, 
has  sent  her  to  you,  with  a  very  excellent  character,  the 
notary  would,  possibly,  take  her  into  his  service ;  and  I 
should  be  doubly  delighted.  Cecily  (for  that  is  her 
name),  having  only  once  gone  astray,  would,  doubtless, 
soon  regain  the  right  path  in  a  house  as  severe  and 
saintly  as  that  of  the  notary's  ;  and  it  is  for  that  reason 
I  am  desirous  of  seeing  the  poor  girl  enter  into  the  ser- 
vice of  M.  Ferrand ;  and,  of  course,  if  introduced  by  so 
respectable  a  person  as  yourself,  Madame  Pipelet,  there 
would  be  no  fear  of  her  obtaining  the  place." 
"Oh,  M.  Rodolph!" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  my  good  madame,  I  am  sure  that  one 
word  from  so  justly  esteemed  an  individual  as  you  —  " 
"  Oh,  my  king  of  lodgers ! " 

"  I  repeat  that,  if  you  would  patronise  the  young  girl 
so  far  as  to  introduce  her  to  Madame  S6raphin,  I  have 
no  fears  but  that  she  would  be  accepted ;  whereas,  you 
know,  if  I  were  to  accompany  her  to  the  notary's 
house  —  " 

"  I  see  what  you  mean ;  to  be  sure,  it  would  look  just 
as  queer  as  if  I  were  to  introduce  a  young  man.  Well, 
I  will  do  what  you  wish ;  it  will  be  serving  old  S6raphin 
out  as  she  deserves.  I  can  tell  you  I  have  had  a  crow 
to  pluck  with  her  a  long  time,  and  this  seems  a  famous 
way  of  serving  her  out;  besides,  it's  a  good  lark,  any 
way.  So  look  upon  the  thing  as  done,  M.  Rodolph.  I'll 
cram  the  old  woman  well.  I  will  tell  her  that  a  rela- 
tion of  my  own,  long  established  in  Germany,  has  just 
died,  as  well  as  her  husband,  leaving  a  daughter  wholly 
dependent  on  me." 

"  Capital !  Well,  then,  without  saying  anything  more 
to  Madame  Se'raphin,  you  shall  take  Cecily  to  M.  Fer- 
rand. All  you  will  have  to  say  is,  that,  not  having  seen  or 
heard  anything  of  your  relation  during  the  last  twenty 
years,  you  consider  it  best  to  let  her  speak  for  herself." 
322 


CECILY. 


"  Ah,  but  then,  if  the  girl  only  jabbers  German  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you  she  speaks  French  perfectly  well.  I 
will  give  her  proper  instructions,  therefore  you  need  do 
nothing  more  than  strongly  recommend  her  to  Madame 
S£raphin,  —  or,  stay,  upon  second  thoughts,  perhaps 
you  had  better  not  say  any  more  than  you  have  done 
on  the  subject,  for  fear  she  should  suspect  you  want  to 
force  the  girl  upon  her.  You  know  that,  frequently, 
the  very  asking  a  thing  produces  a  refusal." 

"  I  should  think  I  did,  too  !  Why,  that  was  the  way  I 
got  rid  of  all  the  flattering  lovers  that  came  about  me. 
If  they  had  never  asked  me  a  favour,  I  don't  know  what 
I  might  have  done." 

"  It  is  always  the  case ;  therefore  say  nothing  more 
to  Madame  S^raphin  than  just  this,  that  Cecily  is  an 
orphan,  and  a  stranger  here,  very  young  and  very  pretty, 
that  she  will  be  a  heavy  burden  to  you,  and  that  you  are 
not  particularly  fond  of  her,  in  consequence  of  having 
long  since  quarrelled  with  her  mother,  and,  conse- 
quently, not  retaining  a  very  great  affection  for  the 
charge  bequeathed  to  your  care." 

"  What  a  deep  one  you  are  !  But  never  mind,  there's 
a  pair  of  us  !  I  say,  M.  Rodolph,  is  it  not  odd  you  and 
I  should  understand  each  other  so  well  ?  Ah,  we  two 
should  have  suited  one  another  to  a  hair  !  Gracious, 
M.  Rodolph,  when  I  think  what  might  have  happened, 
if  we  had  chanced  to  have  met  when  I  was  such  a  ten- 
der-hearted, susceptible  young  creature,  and  so  fond  of 
handsome  young  men,  —  don't  you  fancy  we  should  have 
seemed  like  made  for  one  another,  —  eh,  M.  Rodolph?" 

"Hush!  Suppose  M.  Pipelet  —  " 

"  I  forgot  him,  poor  old  duck !  His  brain  is  half 
turned  since  this  last  abominable  prank  of  Cabrion's ; 
but  I'll  tell  you  about  that  another  time.  As  for  your 
young  relation,  make  yourself  quite  easy ;  I  will  under- 
take to  play  my  part  so  well  that  old  Se*raphin  shall 
come  to  me,  and  beg  to  have  her  as  a  servant." 

323 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  And  if  you  succeed,  Madame  Pipelet,  I  have  one 
hundred  francs  quite  at  your  service.  I  am  not  rich, 
but  —  " 

"  Are  you  making  fun  of  me,  M.  Rodolph,  or  do  you 
imagine  I  am  doing  what  I  do  for  the  sake  of  gain  ?  I 
declare  to  God  it's  out  of  nothing  but  pure  friendship ! 
One  hundred  francs !    That's  handsome,  however !  " 

"  Why,  I  consider  it  but  an  act  of  justice,  as  well  as 
gratitude,  to  offer  you  a  sum  which,  if  left  several 
months  on  my  hands,  the  girl  must  soon  have  cost  me." 

"  Ah,  well,  then,  since  I  can  serve  you  by  accepting 
your  hundred  francs,  of  course  I  have  no  further  objec- 
tion, M.  Rodolph ;  but  we  drew  a  famous  prize  in  the 
lottery  when  you  came  into  the  house,  and  I  don't  care 
who  hears  me  say  it,  for  I'd  as  lief  cry  it  on  the  house- 
tops. You  are  the  very  prince  and  king  of  good  lodgers  ! 
Halloa,  there  is  a  hackney-coach  !  No  doubt,  the  lady 
M.  Bradamanti  expects ;  I  could  not  manage  to  see  her 
well  when  she  came  yesterday,  but  I'll  have  a  precious 
good  stare  at  her  this  time ;  added  to  which,  I've  got 
a  capital  plan  for  finding  out  her  name.  Come,  you 
shall  see  me  go  to  work ;  it  will  be  a  famous  lark  for 
us!" 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  Madame  Pipelet ;  I  have  not  the 
slightest  curiosity  respecting  either  the  name  or  features 
of  this  lady,"  returned  Rodolph,  withdrawing  to  the  very 
end  of  the  lodge. 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  go,  madame?"  cried  Ana- 
stasie,  rushing  towards  the  female,  who  was  entering. 

"  I  am  going  to  M.  Bradamanti's,"  returned  the  person 
addressed,  visibly  annoyed  at  having  her  progress  thus 
arrested. 

"  He  is  not  at  home." 

"  You  are  mistaken." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  not ! "  said  the  porteress,  skilfully  con- 
triving so  to  place  herself  as  to  command  a  perfect  view 
of  the  stranger's  features.    "  M.  Bradamanti  has  gone 

324 


CECILY. 


out,  positively,  absolutely  gone  out ;  that  is  to  say,  he  is 
not  at  home,  except  to  one  lady." 

"  Tis  I,  he  expects  me ;  and  pray,  my  good  woman, 
allow  me  to  pass ;  you  are  really  troublesome !  " 

"  Your  name,  madame,  if  you  please  ?  I  shall  soon 
see  if  it  is  the  name  of  the  person  M.  Bradamanti  de- 
sired me  to  admit.  Should  yours  not  be  the  right  name, 
you  don't  go  up-stairs,  unless  you  first  trample  on  my 
body!" 

"  Is  it  possible  he  could  be  so  imprudent  as  to  tell  you 
my  name  ?  "  cried  the  female,  with  as  much  surprise  as 
uneasiness. 

"  Certainly  he  did,  madame,  or  how  should  I  know 
it?" 

"  How  very  thoughtless ! "  murmured  the  stranger. 
Then,  after  a  momentary  hesitation,  she  said,  impa- 
tiently, in  a  low  voice,  and  as  if  fearful  of  being  over- 
heard, "  My  name  is  D'Orbigny." 

Rodolph  started  at  the  word,  as  it  reached  his  ear,  for 
it  was  the  name  of  Madame  d'Harville's  mother-in-law. 
Advancing,  therefore,  from  the  dark  corner  in  which  he 
stood,  he  managed,  by  the  light  of  the  lamp,  to  obtain  a 
clear  view  of  the  stranger,  in  whose  features  he  easily 
traced  the  portrait  so  skilfully  drawn  by  Clemence  of 
the  author  of  all  her  sufferings. 

"  Madame  d'Orbigny  !  "  repeated  Madame  Pipelet,  in  a 
loud  tone.  "  Ah,  then  you  may  go  up-stairs ;  that  is  the 
name  M.  Bradamanti  gave  me." 

Madame  d'Harville's  mother-in-law  waited  for  no  sec- 
ond bidding,  but  rapidly  passed  by  the  lodge. 

"  Well  done  us !  "  shouted  the  porteress,  with  a  trium- 
phant air ;  "  I  have  caught  my  fish,  done  the  great  lady  ! 
Now,  then,  I  know  her  name,  —  she  is  Madame  d'Or- 
bigny. That  wasn't  a  bad  scheme  of  mine,  was  it, 
M.  Rodolph  ?  But  what  the  plague  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  How  sad  and  thoughtful  you  have  grown  all  of  a 
minute !  " 

325 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  This  lady  has  been  to  see  M.  Bradamanti  before,  has 
she  not?" 

"  Yes,  she  was  here  yesterday  evening ;  and,  directly 
she  was  gone,  M.  Bradamanti  went  out,  most  probably, 
to  take  his  place  in  the  diligence  for  to-day,  because, 
when  he  came  back,  he  asked  me  to  take  his  trunk  to 
the  coach  office,  as  he  could  not  trust  that  little  rascal, 
Tortillard." 

"  And  do  you  know  where  M.  Bradamanti  is  going  ?  " 

"  To  Normandy,  by  way  of  Alencon." 

Rodolph  called  to  his  remembrance  that  Aubiers,  the 
seat  of  M.  d'Orbigny,  was  situated  in  Normandy.  There 
was  no  longer  a  doubt  that  the  charlatan  was  proceeding 
to  the  paternal  home  of  Cle*mence,  and,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  to  aid  and  assist  in  some  scheme  of  wickedness. 

"  The  departure  of  M.  Bradamanti  will  put  old  Sera- 
phin  out  preciously !  "  resumed  Madame  Pipelet.  "  I 
can't  make  out  what  she  wants  with  him  ;  but  she  seems 
as  much  bent  upon  seeing  him  as  he  is  on  avoiding  her ; 
for  he  charged  me  particularly  not  to  tell  her  that  he 
leaves  Paris  to-night  at  six  o'clock.  So,  when  she  calls 
again,  she  will  find  nobody  at  home ;  that  will  give  me 
an  opportunity  of  talking  to  her  about  your  young  person. 
Let's  see,  what  is  her  name  ?    Cissy  —  " 

"  Cecily ! " 

"  Ah,  I  see !  Just  clap  two  more  letters  to  the  word 
I  said,  —  that'll  do.  I  must  tie  a  knot  in  the  corner  of 
my  handkerchief,  that  I  may  be  able  to  recollect  this 
bother  of  a  name.  Ciss  —  Cissy  —  Cecily  —  I've  got 
it!" 

"  Well,  now,  I  think  it  is  time  for  me  to  visit  Mile. 
Rigolette,"  said  Rodolph  to  Madame  Pipelet,  as  he 
quitted  the  lodge. 

"  And  when  you  come  down-stairs,  M.  Rodolph,  I  hope 
you  will  just  speak  a  word  or  two  to  my  dear  old  darling 
of  a  husband.  He  has  had  a  deal  of  trouble  lately,  and 
I  know  it  will  be  a  great  relief  to  him  to  tell  you  all 
326 


CECILY. 


about  it.  That  beast  of  a  Cabrion  has  been  at  his  old 
tricks  again ! " 

"  Be  assured,  Madame  Pipelet,  I  shall  always  be  ready 
to  sympathise  with  your  worthy  husband  in  all  his 
troubles." 

And  with  these  words  Rodolph,  strangely  preoccupied 
with  the  recent  visit  of  Madame  d'Orbigny  to  Polidori, 
slowly  pursued  his  way  to  the  apartment  of  Mile. 
Rigolette. 


END  OP  VOLUME  III. 


327 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

L  Kigolette's  First  Sorrow  ....  11 

H.  The  Will   33 

III.  L'Ile  du  Ravageur   48 

IY.  The  Freshwater  Pirate     ....  60 

V.  The  Mother  and  Son   82 

VI.  Francois  and  Amandine     .             .       .  101 

VII.  A  Lodging-house   119 

VIII.  The  Victims  of  Misplaced  Confidence    .  132 

IX.  The  Rue  de  Chaillot  .       .       .       .       .  156 

X.  The  Comte  de  Saint-Remy  ....  170 

XI.  The  Interview   185 

XE  The  Search  .204 

XIII.  The  Adieux   226 

XIV.  Recollections   239 

XV.  The  Boats   262 

XVI.  The  Happiness  of  Meeting        .       .       .  273 

XVII.  Doctor  Griffon   298 

XVIII.  The  Portrait       .       .       .       .       .  .305 

XIX.  The  Agent  of  Safety   315 

XX.  The  Chouette   321 


v6l.  nr. 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

eigolette's  fiest  soreow. 

Rigolette's  apartment  was  still  in  all  its  extreme 
nicety ;  the  large  silver  watch  placed  over  the  mantel- 
piece, in  a  small  boxwood  stand,  denoted  the  hour  of 
four.  The  severe  cold  weather  having  ceased,  the  thrifty- 
little  needlewoman  had  not  lighted  her  stove. 

From  the  window,  a  corner  of  blue  sky  was  scarcely 
perceptible  over  the  masses  of  irregularly  built  roofs, 
garrets,  and  tall  chimneys,  which  bounded  the  horizon 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Suddenly  a  sunbeam, 
which,  as  it  were,  wandered  for  a  moment  between  two 
high  gables,  came  for  an  instant  to  purple  with  its 
bright  rays  the  windows  of  the  young  girl's  chamber. 

Rigolette  was  at  work,  seated  by  her  window ;  and  the 
soft  shadow  of  her  charming  profile  stood  out  from 
the  transparent  light  of  the  glass  as  a  cameo  of  rosy 
whiteness  on  a  silver  ground.  Brilliant  hues  played  on 
her  jet  black  hair,  twisted  in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her 
head,  and  shaded  with  a  warm  amber  colour  the  ivory 
of  her  industrious  little  fingers,  which  plied  the  needle 
with  incomparable  activity.  The  long  folds  of  her  brown 
gown,  confined  at  the  waist  by  the  bands  of  her  green 
apron,  half  concealed  her  straw-seated  chair,  and  her 
pretty  feet  rested  on  the  edge  of  a  stool  before  her. 
11 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Like  a  rich  lord,  who  sometimes  amuses  himself  in 
hiding  the  walls  of  a  cottage  beneath  splendid  hangings, 
the  setting  sun  for  a  moment  lighted  up  this  little 
chamber  with  a  thousand  dazzling  fires,  throwing  his 
golden  tints  on  the  curtains  of  gray  and  green  stuff, 
and  making  the  walnut-tree  furniture  glisten  with  bright- 
ness, and  the  dry-rubbed  floor  look  like  heated  copper ; 
whilst  it  encircled  in  a  wire-work  of  gold  the  grisette's 
bird-cage.  But,  alas !  in  spite  of  the  exciting  splendour 
of  this  sun-ray,  the  two  canaries  (male  and  female) 
flitted  about  uneasily,  and,  contrary  to  their  usual  habit, 
did  not  sing  a. note.  This  was  because,  contrary  to  her 
usual  habit,  Rigolette  did  not  sing.  The  three  never 
warbled  without  one  another ;  almost  invariably  the 
cheerful  and  matin  song  of  the  latter  called  forth  that 
of  the  birds,  who,  more  lazy,  did  not  leave  their  nests  as 
early  as  their  mistress.  Then  there  were  rivalries,  — 
contentions  of  clear,  sonorous,  pearly,  silvery  notes,  in 
which  the  birds  had  not  always  the  advantage. 

Rigolette  did  not  sing,  because,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  she  experienced  a  sorrow.  Up  to  this  time,  the 
sight  of  the  misery  of  the  Morels  had  often  affected  her ; 
but  such  sights  are  too  familiar  to  tile  poorer  classes  to 
cause  them  any  very  lasting  melancholy.  After  having, 
almost  every  day,  succoured  these  unfortunates  as  far  as 
was  in  her  power,  sincerely  wept  with  and  for  them,  the 
young  girl  felt  herself  at  the  same  time  moved  and  sat- 
isfied,—  moved  by  their  misfortunes,  and  satisfied  at  hav- 
ing shown  herself  pitiful.  But  this  was  not  a  sorrow. 
Rigolette's  natural  gaiety  soon  regained  its  empire ;  and 
then,  without  egotism,  but  by  a  simple  fact  of  compari- 
son, she  found  herself  so  happy  in  her  little  chamber, 
after  leaving  the  horrible  den  of  the  Morels,  that  her 
momentary  sadness  speedily  disappeared. 

This  lightness  of  impression  was  so  little  affected  by 
personal  feeling,  that,  by  a  mode  of  extremely  delicate 
reasoning,  the  grisette  considered  it  almost  a  duty  to  aid 
12 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 


those  more  unhappy  than  herself,  that  she  might  thus 
unscrupulously  enjoy  an  existence  so  very  precarious  and 
entirely  dependent  on  her  labour,  but  which,  compared 
with  the  fearful  distress  of  the  lapidary's  family,  appeared 
to  her  almost  luxurious. 

"  In  order  to  sing  without  compunction,  when  we  have 
near  us  persons  so  much  to  be  pitied,"  she  said,  naively, 
"  we  must  have  been  as  charitable  to  them  as  possible." 

Before  we  inform  our  reader  the  cause  of  Rigolette's 
first  sorrow,  we  are  desirous  to  assure  him,  or  her,  com- 
pletely as  to  the  virtue  of  this  young  girl.  We  are  sorry 
to  use  the  word  virtue,  —  a  serious,  pompous,  solemn 
word,  which  almost  always  brings  with  it  ideas  of  pain- 
ful sacrifice,  of  painful  struggle  against  the  passions,  of 
austere  meditations  on  the  final  close  of  all  things  here 
below.  Such  was  not  the  virtue  of  Rigolette.  She  had 
neither  deeply  struggled  nor  meditated ;  she  had  worked, 
and  laughed,  and  sung.  Her  prudence,  as  she  called  it, 
when  speaking  frankly  and  sincerely  to  Rodolph,  was 
with  her  a  question  of  time,  —  she  had  not  the  leisure 
to  be  in  love.  Particularly  lively,  industrious,  and 
orderly,  order,  work,  and  gaiety  had  often,  unknown 
to  herself,  defended,  sustained,  saved  her. 

It  may  be  deemed,  perchance,  that  this  morality  is 
light,  frivolous,  casual ;  but  of  what  consequence  is  the 
cause,  so  that  the  effect  endures  ?  Of  what  consequence 
are  the  directions  of  the  roots  of  a  plant,  provided  the 
flower  blooms  pure,  expanded,  and  full  of  perfume  ? 

Apropos  of  our  utopianisms,  as  to  the  encouragement, 
help,  and  recompenses  which  society  ought  to  grant  to 
artisans  remarkable  for  their  eminent  social  qualities, 
we  have  alluded  to  that  protection  of  virtue  (one  of  the 
projects  of  the  Emperor,  by  the  way).  Let  us  suppose 
this  admirable  idea  realised.  One  of  the  real  philan- 
thropists whom  the  Emperor  proposed  to  employ  in 
searching  after  worth  has  discovered  Rigolette.  Aban- 
doned without  advice,  without  aid,  exposed  to  all  the 
13 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


perils  of  poverty,  to  all  the  seductions  with  which 
youth  and  beauty  are  surrounded,  this  charming  girl 
has  remained  pure  ;  her  honest,  hard-working  life  might 
serve  for  a  model  and  example.  Would  not  this  young 
creature  deserve,  not  a  mere  recompense,  not  succour 
only,  but  some  impressive  words  of  approbation  and 
encouragement,  which  would  give  her  a  consciousness 
of  her  own  worth,  exalt  her  in  her  own  eyes,  and  lay  on 
her  obligations  for  the  future  ?  At  least  she  would 
know  that  she  was  followed  by  eyes  full  of  solicitude 
and  protection  in  the  difficult  path  in  which  she  is 
progressing  with  so  much  courage  and  serenity ;  she 
would  know  that,  if  one  day  the  want  of  work  or  sick- 
ness threatened  to  destroy  the  equilibrium  of  the  poor 
and  occupied  life,  which  depends  solely  on  work  and 
health,  a  slight  help,  due  to  her  former  deserts,  would 
be  given  to  her. 

People,  no  doubt,  will  exclaim  against  the  impossibility 
of  this  tutelary  surveillance,  which  would  surround  per- 
sons particularly  worthy  of  interest  through  their  previ- 
ous excellent  lives.  It  seems  to  us  that  society  has 
already  resolved  this  problem.  Has  it  not  already  imag- 
ined the  superintendence  of  the  police,  for  life  or  for  a 
period,  for  the  most  useful  purpose  of  constantly  con- 
trolling the  conduct  of  dangerous  persons,  noted  for  the 
infamy  of  their  former  lives  ?  Why  does  not  society 
exercise   also  a  superintendence   of   moral   charity  ? 

But  let  us  leave  the  lofty  stilts  of  our  utopianisms,  and 
return  to  the  cause  of  Rigolette's  first  sorrow. 

With  the  exception  of  Germain,  a  well-behaved,  open- 
hearted  young  man,  the  grisette's  neighbours  had  all,  at 
first,  begun  on  terms  of  familiarity,  believing  her  offers 
of  good  neighbourship  were  little  flirtations ;  but  these 
gentlemen  had  been  compelled  to  admit,  with  as  much 
astonishment  as  annoyance,  that  they  found  in  Rigolette 
an  amiable  and  mirthful  companion  for  their  Sunday 
excursions,  a  pleasant  neighbour,  and  a  kind-hearted 
14 


RIGOLETTE' S  FIRST  SORROW. 


creature,  but  not  a  mistress.  Their  surprise  and  their 
annoyance,  at  first  very  great,  gradually  gave  way  before 
the  frank  and  even  temper  of  the  grisette ;  and  then,  as 
she  had  sagaciously  said  to  Rodolph,  her  neighbours 
were  proud  on  Sundays  to  have  on  their  arms  a  pretty 
girl,  who  was  an  honour  to  them  in  every  way  (Rigo- 
lette  was  quite  regardless  of  appearances),  and  who  only 
cost  them  the  share  of  the  moderate  pleasures,  whose 
value  was  doubled  by  her  presence  and  nice  appearance. 
Besides,  the  dear  girl  was  so  easily  contented !  In  her 
days  of  penury  she  dined  well  and  gaily  off  a  morsel  of 
warm  cake,  which  she  nibbled  with  all  the  might  of  her 
little  white  teeth;  after  which,  she  amused  herself  so 
much  with  a  walk  on  the  boulevards  or  in  the  arcades. 

If  our  readers  feel  but  little  sympathy  with  Rigolette, 
they  will  at  least  confess  that  a  person  must  be  very 
absurd,  or  very  cruel,  to  refuse  once  a  week  these  simple 
amusements  to  so  delightful  a  creature,  who,  besides 
having  no  right  to  be  jealous,  never  prevented  her  cav- 
aliers from  consoling  themselves  for  her  cruelty  by 
flirtations  with  other  damsels. 

Frangois  Germain  alone  never  founded  any  vain  hopes 
on  the  familiarity  of  the  young  girl,  but,  either  from 
instinct  of  heart  or  delicacy  of  mind,  he  guessed  from 
the  first  day  how  very  agreeable  the  singular  companion- 
ship of  Rigolette  might  be  made. 

What  might  be  imagined  happened,  and  Germain  fell 
passionately  in  love  with  his  neighbour,  without  daring 
to  say  a  word  to  her  of  his  love. 

Far  from  imitating  his  predecessors,  who,  convinced 
of  the  vanity  of  their  pursuit,  had  consoled  themselves 
with  other  loves,  without  being  on  that  account  the  less 
on  good  terms  with  their  neighbour,  Germain  had  most 
supremely  enjoyed  his  intimacy  with  the  young  girl, 
passing  with  her  not  only  his  Sunday  but  every  evening 
when  he  was  not  engaged.  During  these  long  hours 
Rigolette  was,  as  usual,  merry  and  laughing;  Germain 
15 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


tender,  attentive,  serious,  and  often  somewhat  sad.  This 
sadness  was  his  only  drawback,  for  his  manners,  natu- 
rally good,  were  not  to  be  compared  with  the  foppery 
of  M.  Girandeau,  the  commercial  traveller,  alias  bag- 
man, or  with  the  noisy  eccentricities  of  Cabrion ;  but  M. 
Girandeau  by  his  unending  loquacity,  and  the  painter 
by  his  equally  interminable  fun,  took  the  lead  of  Ger- 
main, whose  quiet  composure  rather  astonished  his  little 
neighbour,  the  grisette. 

Rigolette  then  had  not,  as  yet,  testified  any  decided 
preference  for  any  one  of  her  beaux ;  but  as  she  was 
by  no  means  deficient  in  judgment,  she  soon  discovered 
that  Germain  alone  united  all  the  qualities  requisite  for 
making  a  reasonable  woman  happy. 

Having  stated  all  these  facts,  we  will  inquire  why 
Rigolette  was  sad,  and  why  neither  she  nor  her  birds 
sang.  Her  oval  and  fresh-looking  face  was  rather  pale ; 
her  large  black  eyes,  usually  gay  and  brilliant,  were 
slightly  dulled  and  veiled  ;  whilst  her  whole  look  bespoke 
unusual  fatigue.  She  had  been  working  nearly  all  the 
night;  from  time  to  time  she  looked  sorrowfully  at  a 
letter  which  lay  open  on  a  table  near  her.  This  letter 
had  been  addressed  to  her  by  Germain,  and  contained  as 
follows : 

"  Prison  of  the  Conciergerie. 
"Mademoiselle: —  The  place  from  which  I  address  you  will 
sufficiently  prove  to  you  the  extent  of  my  misfortune,  —  I  am 
locked  up  as  a  robber.  I  am  guilty  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world, 
and  yet  I  am  bold  enough  to  write  to  you  I  It  is  because  it 
would,  indeed,  be  dreadful  to  me  to  believe  that  you  consider  me 
as  a  degraded  criminal.  I  beseech  you  not  to  condemn  me  until 
you  have  perused  this  letter.  If  you  discard  me,  that  will  be  the 
final  blow,  and  will  indeed  overwhelm  me.  I  will  tell  you  all  that 
has  passed.  For  some  time  I  had  left  the  Rue  du  Temple,  but 
I  knew  through  poor  Louise  that  the  Morel  family,  in  whom  you 
and  I  took  such  deep  interest,  were  daily  more  and  more  wretched. 
Alas,  my  pity  for  these  poor  people  has  been  my  destruction ! 
I  do  not  repent  it,  but  my  fate  is  very  cruel.    Last  night  I  had 


16 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 

stayed  very  late  at  M.  Ferrand's,  occupied  with  business  of 
importance.  In  the  room  in  which  I  was  at  work  was  a  bureau, 
in  which  my  employer  shut  up  every  day  the  work  I  had  done. 
This  evening  he  appeared  much  disturbed  and  troubled,  and  said 
to  me,  '  Do  not  leave  until  these  accounts  are  finished,  and  then 
put  them  in  the  bureau,  the  key  of  which  I  will  leave  with  you ; ' 
and  then  he  left  the  room.  When  my  work  was  done  I  opened 
the  drawer  to  pat  it  away,  when,  mechanically,  my  eyes  were 
attracted  by  an  open  letter,  on  which  I  read  the  name  of  Jerome 
Morel,  the  lapidary.  I  confess  that,  seeing  that  it  referred  to 
this  unfortunate  man,  I  had  the  indiscretion  to  read  this  letter ; 
and  I  learnt  that  the  artisan  was  to  be  arrested  next  day  on  an 
overdue  bill  of  thirteen  hundred  francs,  at  the  suit  of  M.  Ferrand, 
who,  under  an  assumed  name,  had  imprisoned  him.  This  infor- 
mation was  from  an  agent  employed  by  M.  Ferrand.  I  knew 
enough  of  the  situation  of  the  Morel  family  to  be  aware  of  the 
terrible  blow  which  the  imprisonment  of  their  only  support  must 
inflict  upon  them,  and  I  was  equally  distressed  and  indignant. 
Unfortunately  I  saw  in  the  same  drawer  an  open  box,  with  two 
thousand  francs  in  gold  in  it.  At  this  moment  I  heard  Louise 
coming  up  the  stairs,  and  without  reflecting  on  the  seriousness  of 
my  offence,  but  profiting  by  the  opportunity  which  chance  offered, 
I  took  thirteen  hundred  francs,  went  to  her  in  the  passage,  and 
put  the  money  in  her  hand,  saying,  1  They  are  going  to  arrest 
your  father  to-morrow  at  daybreak,  for  thirteen  hundred  francs, 
—  here  they  are.  Save  him,  but  do  not  say  that  the  money  comes 
from  me.  M.  Ferrand  is  a  bad  man.'  You  see,  mademoiselle,  my 
intention  was  good,  but  my  conduct  culpable.  I  conceal  nothing 
from  you,  but  this  is  my  excuse.  By  dint  of  saving  for  a  long 
time  I  had  realised,  and  placed  with  a  banker,  the  sum  of  fifteen 
hundred  francs,  but  the  cashier  of  the  banker  never  came  to  the 
office  before  noon.  Morel  was  to  be  arrested  at  daybreak,  and 
therefore  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  have  the  money  so  as 
to  pay  it  in  good  time ;  if  not,  even  if  I  could  have  gone  in  the 
day  to  release  him  from  prison,  still  he  would  be  arrested  and 
carried  off  in  presence  of  his  wife,  whom  such  a  blow  must 
have  killed.  Besides,  the  heavy  costs  of  the  writ  would  have 
been  added  to  the  expenses  of  the  lapidary.  You  will  under- 
stand, I  dare  say,  that  all  these  new  misfortunes  would  not  have 
befallen  me  if  I  had  been  able  to  restore  the  thirteen  hundred 
francs  I  had  taken  back  again  to  the  bureau  before  M.  Ferrand 
discovered  anything ;  unfortunately,  I  fell  into  that  mistake.  I 
left  M.  Ferrand's,  and  was  no  longer  under  the  impression  of 
indignation  and  pity  which  had  impelled  me  to  the  step.  I  began 
to  reflect  upon  all  the  dangers  of  my  position.  A  thousand  fears 
17 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

then  came  to  assail  me.  I  knew  the  notary's  severity,  and  he 
might  come  after  I  left  and  search  in  his  bureau  and  discover 
the  theft;  for  in  his  eyes  —  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  —  it  is  a 
theft.  These  thoughts  overwhelmed  me,  and,  late  as  it  was, 
I  ran  to  the  banker's  to  supplicate  him  to  give  me  my  money 
instantly.  I  should  have  found  an  excuse  for  this  ui'gent  request, 
and  then  I  should  have  returned  to  M.  Ferrand  and  replaced  the 
money  I  had  taken.  By  an  unlucky  chance,  the  banker  had  gone 
to  Belleville  for  two  days,  to  his  country-house,  where  he  was 
engaged  in  some  plantations.  Everything  seemed  to  conspire 
against  me.  I  waited  for  daybreak  with  intense  anxiety,  and 
hastened  to  Belleville, — the  banker  had  just  left  for  Paris.  I 
returned,  saw  him,  obtained  my  money,  hastened  to  M.  Fer- 
rand ;  everything  was  discovered.  But  this  is  only  a  portion  of 
my  misfortunes.  The  notary  at  once  accused  me  of  having 
robbed  him  of  fifteen  thousand  francs  in  bank-notes,  which,  he 
declared,  were  in  the  drawer  of  the  bureau,  with  the  two  thousand 
francs  in  gold.  This  was  a  base  accusation,  —  an  infamous  lie  ! 
I  confess  myself  guilty  of  the  first  abstraction,  but,  by  all  that  is 
most  sacred  in  the  world,  I  swear  to  you,  mademoiselle,  that  I  am 
innocent  of  the  second.  I  never  saw  a  bank-note  in  the  drawer. 
There  were  only  two  thousand  francs  in  gold,  from  which  I  took 
the  thirteen  hundred  francs  I  have  mentioned.  This  is  the  truth, 
mademoiselle.  I  am  under  this  terrible  accusation,  and  yet  I 
affirm  that  you  ought  to  know  me  incapable  of  a  lie.  But  will 
you,  —  do  you  believe  me  ?  Alas,  as  M.  Ferrand  said,  '  he  who 
has  taken  a  small  sum  may  equally  have  taken  a  large  amount, 
and  his  word  does  not  deserve  belief.'  I  have  always  seen  you  so 
good  and  devoted  to  the  unhappy,  mademoiselle,  and  I  know  you 
are  so  frank  and  liberal-minded,  that  your  heart  will  guide  you  in 
the  just  appreciation  of  the  truth,  I  hope.  I  do  not  ask  any  more. 
Give  credit  to  my  words,  and  you  will  find  in  me  as  much  to  pity 
as  to  blame;  for,  I  repeat  to  you,  my  intention  was  good,  and 
circumstances  impossible  to  foresee  have  destroyed  me.  Oh, 
Mile.  Bigolette,  I  am  very  unhappy !  If  you  knew  in  the  midst 
of  what  a  set  of  persons  I  am  doomed  to  exist  until  my  trial  is 
over !  Yesterday  they  took  me  to  a  place  which  they  call  the 
d6pot  of  the  prefecture  of  police.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  felt 
when,  after  having  gone  up  a  dark  staircase,  I  reached  a  door  with 
an  iron  wicket,  which  was  opened  and  soon  closed  upon  me.  I 
was  so  troubled  in  my  mind  that  I  could  not,  at  first,  distinguish 
anything.  A  hot  and  fetid  air  came  upon  me,  and  I  heard  a  loud 
noise  of  voices  mingled  with  sinister  laughs,  angry  exclamations, 
and  depraved  songs.  I  remained  motionless  at  the  door  for 
awhile,  looking  at  the  stone  flooring  of  the  apartment,  and  neither 
18 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 

daring  to  advance  nor  lift  up  my  eyes,  thinking  that  everybody 
was  looking  at  me.  They  were  not,  however,  thinking  of  me ;  for 
a  prisoner  more  or  less  does  not  at  all  disturb  these  men.  At  last  I 
ventured  to  look  up,  and,  oh,  what  horrid  countenances  !  What 
ragged  wretches  !  What  dirty  and  bespattered  garments !  All 
the  exterior  marks  of  misery  and  vice  !  There  were  forty  or  fifty 
seated,  standing,  or  lying  on  benches  secured  to  the  wall,  —  va- 
grants, robbers,  assassins,  and  all  who  had  been  apprehended 
during  the  night  and  day.  When  they  perceived  me  I  found 
a  sad  consolation  in  seeing  that  they  did  not  recognise  me  as 
belonging  or  known  to  them.  Some  of  them  looked  at  me  with 
an  insulting  and  derisive  air,  and  then  began  to  talk  amongst 
themselves  in  a  low  tone,  and  in  some  horrible  jargon,  not  one 
word  of  which  did  I  understand.  After  a  short  time  one  of  the 
most  brutal  amongst  them  came,  and,  slapping  me  on  the  shoul- 
der, asked  me  for  money  to  pay  my  footing.  I  gave  them  some 
silver,  hoping  thus  to  purchase  repose  ;  but  it  was  not  enough,  and 
they  demanded  more,  which  I  refused.  Then  several  of  them  sur- 
rounded me  and  assailed  me  with  threats  and  imprecations,  and 
were  proceeding  to  extremities,  when,  fortunately  for  me,  a  turn- 
key entered,  who  had  been  attracted  by  the  noise.  I  complained 
to  him,  and  he  insisted  on  their  restoring  to  me  the  money  I  had 
given  them  already,  adding  that,  if  I  liked  to  pay  a  small  fee, 
I  should  go  to  what  is  called  the  pistole ;  that  is,  be  in  a  cell  to 
myself.  I  accepted  the  offer  gratefully,  and  left  these  ruffians  in 
the  midst  of  their  loud  menaces  for  the  future ;  '  for,'  said  they, 
'we  are  sure  to  meet  again,  when  I  could  not  get  away  from 
them.'  The  turnkey  conducted  me  to  a  cell,  where  I  passed  the 
rest  of  the  night.  It  is  from  here  that  I  now  write  to  you,  Mile. 
Eigolette.  Directly  after  my  examination  I  shall  be  taken  to 
another  prison,  called  La  Force,  where  I  expect  to  meet  many 
of  my  companions  in  the  station-house.  The  turnkey,  interested 
by  my  grief  and  tears,  has  promised  me  to  forward  this  letter  to 
you,  although  such  kindnesses  are  strictly  forbidden.  I  ask, 
Mile.  Eigolette,  a  last  service  of  your  friendship,  if,  indeed,  you 
do  not  blush  now  for  such  an  intimacy.  In  case  you  will  kindly 
grant  my  request,  it  is  this  :  With  this  letter  you  will  receive 
a  small  key,  and  a  line  for  the  porter  of  the  house  I  live  in,  Bou- 
levard St.  Denis,  !Nb.  11.  I  inform  him  that  you  will  act  as  if  it 
were  myself  with  respect  to  everything  that  belongs  to  me,  and 
that  he  is  to  attend  to  your  instructions.  He  will  take  you  to 
my  room,  and  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  open  my  secretaire 
with  the  key  I  send  you  herewith.  In  this  you  will  find  a  large 
packet  containing  different  papers,  which  I  beg  of  you  to  take 
care  of  for  me.  One  of  them  was  intended  for  you,  as  you  will 
.19 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 

see  by  the  address ;  others  have  been  written  of  you,  in  happier 
days.  Do  not  be  angry.  I  did  not  think  they  would  ever  come 
to  your  knowledge.  I  beg  you,  also,  to  take  the  small  sum  of 
money  which  is  in  this  drawer,  as  well  as  a  satin  bag,  which  con- 
tains a  small  orange  silk  handkerchief,  which  you  wore  when  we 
used  to  go  out  on  Sundays,  and  which  you  gave  me  on  the  day 
I  quitted  the  Rue  du  Temple.  I  should  wish  that,  excepting  a 
little  linen  which  you  will  be  so  good  as  send  to  me  at  La 
Force,  you  would  sell  the  furniture  and  things  I  possess ;  for, 
whether  acquitted  or  found  guilty,  I  must  of  necessity  be  obliged 
to  quit  Paris.  Where  shall  I  go  ?  What  are  my  resources  ?  God 
only  knows.  Madame  Bouvard,  the  saleswoman  of  the  Temple, 
who  has  already  sold  and  bought  for  me  many  things,  will  per- 
haps take  all  the  furniture,  etc.,  at  once.  She  is  a  very  fair- 
dealing  woman,  and  this  would  save  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble, 
for  I  know  how  precious  your  time  is.  I  have  paid  my  rent  in 
advance,  and  I  have,  therefore,  only  to  ask  you  to  give  a  small 
present  to  the  porter.  Excuse,  mademoiselle,  the  trouble  of  these 
details ;  but  you  are  the  only  person  in  the  world  to  whom  I  dare 
and  can  address  myself.  I  might,  perhaps,  have  asked  one  of  M. 
Ferrand's  clerks  to  do  this  service  for  me,  as  we  were  on  friendly 
terms,  but  I  feared  his  curiosity  as  to  certain  papers.  Several 
concern  you,  as  I  have  said,  and  others  relate  to  the  sad  events 
in  my  life.  Ah,  believe  me,  Mile.  Rigolette,  if  you  grant  me 
this  last  favour,  this  last  proof  of  former  regard,  it  will  be  my 
only  consolation  under  the  great  affliction  in  which  I  am  plunged  ; 
and,  in  spite  of  all,  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse  me.  I  also  beg  of 
you  to  give  me  permission  to  write  to  you  sometimes.  It  will  be 
so  consoling,  so  comforting  to  me,  to  be  able  to  pour  out  my  heavy 
sorrows  into  a  kind  heart.  Alas,  I  am  alone  in  the  world, — 
no  one  takes  the  slightest  interest  in  me !  This  isolation  was 
before  most  painful  to  me.  Think  what  it  must  be  now !  And 
yet  I  am  honest,  and  have  the  consciousness  of  never  having 
injured  any  one,  and  of  always  having,  at  the  peril  of  my  life, 
testified  my  aversion  for  what  is  wicked  and  wrong  ;  as  you  will 
see  by  the  papers,  which  I  pray  of  you  to  take  care  of,  and  which 
you  may  read.  But  when  I  say  this,  who  will  believe  me  ?  M. 
Ferrand  is  respected  by  all  the  world ;  his  reputation  for  probity 
is  long  established ;  he  has  a  just  cause  of  accusation  against  me, 
and  he  will  crush  me.  I  resign  myself  at  once  to  my  fate.  Now, 
Mile.  Rigolette,  if  you  do  believe  me,  you  will  not,  I  hope,  feel 
any  contempt  for  me,  but  pity  me  ;  and  you  will,  perhaps,  carry 
your  generosity  so  far  as  to  come  one  day,  —  some  Sunday  (alas, 
what  recollections  that  word  brings  up  !)  —  some  Sunday,  to  see 
me  in  the  reception-room  of  my  prison.  But  no,  no;  I  never 
20 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 


could  dare  to  see  you  iu  such  a  place !  Yet  you  are  so  good,  so 
kind,  that  —  if  —  I  am  compelled  to  break  off  this  letter  and 
send  it  to  you  at  once,  with  the  key,  and  a  line  for  the  porter, 
which  I  write  in  great  haste.  The  turnkey  has  come  to  tell  me 
that  I  am  going  directly  before  the  magistrate.  Adieu,  adieu, 
Mile.  Rigolette  !  Do  not  discard  me,  for  my  hope  is  in  you,  and 
in  you  only !  Francois  Germain. 

"  P.  S.  —  If  you  reply,  address  your  letter  to  me  at  the  prison 
of  La  Force." 

We  may  now  divine  the  cause  of  Rigolette's  first 
sorrow. 

Her  excellent  heart  was  deeply  wounded  at  a  mis- 
fortune of  which  she  had  no  suspicion  until  that 
moment.  She  believed  unhesitatingly  in  the  entire 
veracity  of  the  statement  of  Germain,  the  unfortunate 
son  of  the  Schoolmaster. 

Not  very  strait-laced,  she  thought  her  old  neighbour 
exaggerated  his  fault  immensely.  To  save  the  unhappy 
father  of  a  family,  he  had  momentarily  appropriated  a 
sum  which  he  thought  he  could  instantly  refund.  This 
action,  in  the  grisette's  eyes,  was  but  generous. 

By  one  of  those  contradictions  common  to  women, 
and  especially  to  women  of  her  class,  this  young  girl, 
who  until  then  had  not  felt  for  Germain  more  than  her 
other  neighbours,  but  a  kind  and  mirthful  friendship, 
now  experienced  for  him  a  decided  preference.  As  soon 
as  she  knew  that  he  was  unfortunate,  unjustly  accused, 
and  a  prisoner,  his  remembrance  effaced  that  of  all  his 
former  rivals.  Yet  Rigolette  did  not  all  at  once  feel 
intense  love,  but  a  warm  and  sincere  affection,  full  of 
pity  and  determined  devotion,  —  a  sentiment  which  was 
the  more  new  with  her  in  consequence  of  the  better 
sensations  it  brought  with  it. 

Such  was  the  moral  position  of  Rigolette  when 
Rodolph  entered  her  chamber,  having  first  rapped 
very  discreetly  at  the  door. 

"  Good  morning,  neighbour,"  said  Rodolph  to  Rigo- 
lette ;  "  do  not  let  me  disturb  you." 

21 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Not  at  all,  neighbour.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  de- 
lighted to  see  you,  for  I  have  had  something  to  vex  me 
dreadfully." 

"  Why,  in  truth,  you  look  very  pale,  and  appear  as 
though  you  had  been  weeping." 

"  Indeed,  I  have  been  weeping,  and  for  a  good  reason. 
Poor  Germain !  There  —  read !  "  And  Rigolette  handed 
the  letter  of  the  prisoner  to  Rodolph.  "  Is  not  that 
enough  to  break  one's  heart  ?  You  told  me  you  took  an 
interest  in  him,  —  now's  the  time  to  prove  it !  "  she 
added,  whilst  Rodolph  was  attentively  reading  the 
letter.  "Is  that  wicked  old  M.  Ferrand  at  war  with 
all  the  world  ?  First  he  attacked  that  poor  Louise,  and 
now  he  assails  Germain.  Oh,  I  am  not  ill-natured ;  but 
if  some  great  harm  happened  to  this  notary,  I  should 
really  be  glad !  To  accuse  such  an  honest  young  man 
of  having  stolen  fifteen  thousand  francs  from  him ! 
Germain,  too !  He  who  was  honesty  itself !  And 
such  a  steady,  serious  young  man ;  and  so  sad,  too ! 
Oh,  he  is  indeed  to  be  pitied,  in  the  midst  of  all  these 
wretches  in  his  prison !  Ah,  M.  Rodolph,  from  to-day 
I  begin  to  see  that  life  is  not  all  couleur-de-rose." 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do,  my  little  neigh- 
bour ? " 

"  What  do  I  mean  to  do  ?  Why,  of  course,  all  that 
Germain  asks  of  me,  and  as  quickly  as  possible.  I 
should  have  been  gone  before  now,  but  for  this  work, 
which  is  required  in  great  haste,  and  which  I  must  take 
instantly  to  the  Rue  St.  Honore*,  on  my  way  to  Ger- 
main's room,  where  I  am  going  to  get  the  papers  he 
speaks  of.  I  have  passed  part  of  the  night  at  work, 
that  I  might  be  forward.  I  shall  have  so  many  things 
to  do  besides  my  usual  work  that  I  must  be  excessively 
methodical.  In  the  first  place,  Madame  Morel  is  very 
anxious  that  I  should  see  Louise  in  prison.  That  will 
be  a  hard  task,  but  I  shall  try  to  do  it.  Unfortunately, 
I  do  not  know  to  whom  I  should  address  myself." 
22 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 

"  I  had  thought  of  that." 
"  You,  neighbour  ?  " 
"  Here  is  an  order." 

"  How  fortunate  !  Can't  you  procure  me  also  an 
order  for  the  prison  of  poor,  unhappy  Germain  ?  He 
would  be  so  delighted!" 

"  I  will  also  find  you  the  means  of  seeing  Germain." 

«  Oh,  thank  you,  M.  Rodolph." 

"  You  will  not  be  afraid,  then,  of  going  to  his  prison  ?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  although  my  heart  will  beat  very 
violently  the  first  time.  But  that's  nothing.  When 
Germain  was  free,  was  he  not  always  ready  to  anticipate 
all  my  wishes,  and  take  me  to  the  theatre,  for  a  walk, 
or  read  to  me  of  an  evening  ?  Well,  and  now  he  is  in 
trouble,  it  is  my  turn.  A  poor  little  mouse  like  me  can- 
not do  much,  I  know  that  well  enough ;  but  all  I  can  do 
I  will  do,  that  he  may  rely  upon.  He  shall  find  that 
I  am  a  sincere  friend.  But,  M.  Rodolph,  there  is  one 
thing  which  pains  me,  and  that  is  that  he  should  doubt 
me,  —  that  he  should  suppose  me  capable  of  despising 
him  !  I !  —  and  for  what,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  That 
old  notary  accuses^  him  of  robbery.  I  know  it  is  not 
true.  Germain's  letter  has  proved  to  me  that  he  is 
innocent,  even  if  I  had  thought  him  guilty.  You  have 
only  to  see  him,  and  you  would  feel  certain  that  he  is 
incapable  of  a  bad  action.  A  person  must  be  as  wicked 
as  M.  Ferrand  to  assert  such  atrocious  falsehoods." 

"  Bravo,  neighbour ;  I  like  your  indignation." 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  were  a  man,  that  I  might  go  to 
this  notary  and  say  to  him,  '  Oh,  you  say  that  Germain 
has  robbed  you,  do  you  ?  Well,  then,  that's  for  you ! 
And  that  he  cannot  steal  from  you,  at  all  events  ? ' 
And  thump  —  thump — thump,  I  would  beat  him  till 
I  couldn't  stand  over  him." 

"  You  administer  justice  very  expeditiously,"  said 
Rodolph,  smiling. 

"  Because  it  makes  my  blood  boil.  And,  as  Germain 
23 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


says  in  his  letter,  all  the  world  will  side  with  his  em- 
ployer, because  he  is  rich  and  looked  up  to,  whilst 
Germain  is  poor  and  unprotected,  unless  you  will  come 
to  his  assistance,  M.  Rodolph,  —  you  who  know  such 
benevolent  persons.  Do  not  you  think  that  something 
could  be  done  ?  " 

"  He  must  await  his  sentence.  Once  acquitted,  as  I 
believe  he  will  be,  he  will  not  want  for  proofs  of  the 
interest  taken  in  him.  But  listen,  neighbour ;  for  I 
know  I  may  rely  on  your  discretion." 

"  Oh,  yes,  M.  Rodolph,  I  never  blab." 

"  Well,  then,  no  one  must  know  —  not  even  Germain 
himself  —  that  he  has  friends  who  are  watching  over 
him,  —  for  he  has  friends." 

"  Really ! " 

"  Very  powerful  and  devoted." 

"  It  would  give  him  much  courage  to  know  that." 

"  Unquestionably ;  but  perhaps  he  might  not  keep  it 
to  himself.  Then  M.  Ferrand,  alarmed,  would  be  on  his 
guard,  —  his  suspicions  would  be  aroused ;  and,  as  he  is 
very  cunning,  it  would  become  very  difficult  to  catch 
him,  which  would  be  most  annoying ;  for  not  only  must 
Germain's  innocence  be  made  clear,  but  his  denouncer 
must  be  unmasked." 

"  I  understand,  M.  Rodolph." 

"  It  is  the  same  with  Louise ;  and  I  bring  you  this 
order  to  see  her,  that  you  may  beg  of  her  not  to  tell  any 
person  what  she  disclosed  to  me.  She  will  know  what 
that  means." 

"  I  understand,  M.  Rodolph." 

"  In  a  word,  let  Louise  beware  of  complaining  in 
prison  of  her  master's  wickedness.  This  is  most 
important.  But  she  must  conceal  nothing  from  the 
barrister  who  will  come  from  me  to  talk  with  her  as  to 
the  grounds  of  her  defence.  Be  sure  you  tell  her  all  this." 

"  Make  yourself  easy,  neighbour,  I  will  forget  nothing; 
I  have  an  excellent  memory.  But,  when  we  talk  of 
24 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 


goodness,  it  is  you  who  are  so  good  and  kind.  If  any 
one  is  in  trouble,  then  you  come  directly." 

"  I  have  told  you,  my  good  little  neighbour,  that  I  am 
but  a  poor  clerk ;  but  when  I  meet  with  good  persons 
who  deserve  protection,  I  instantly  tell  a  benevolent 
individual  who  has  entire  confidence  in  me,  and  they 
are  helped  at  once.    That's  all  I  do  in  the  matter." 

"  And  where  are  you  lodging,  now  you  have  given  up 
your  chamber  to  the  Morels  ?  " 

"  I  live  in  a  furnished  lodging." 

"  Oh,  how  I  should  hate  that !  To  be  where  all  the 
world  has  been  before  you,  it  is  as  if  everybody  had 
been  in  your  place." 

"I  am  only  there  at  nights,  and  then  — " 

"  I  understand,  —  it  is  less  disagreeable.  Yet  I 
shouldn't  like  it,  M.  Rodolph.  My  home  made  me  so 
happy,  I  had  got  into  such  a  quiet  way  of  living,  that  I 
did  not  think  it  was  possible  I  should  ever  know  a 
sorrow.  And  yet,  you  see  —  But  no,  I  cannot  describe 
to  you  the  blow  which  Germain's  misfortune  has  brought 
upon  me.  I  have  seen  the  Morels,  and  others  beside, 
who  were  very  much  to  be  pitied  certainly.  But,  at 
best,  misery  is  misery ;  and  amongst  poor  folk,  who  look 
for  it,  it  does  not  surprise  them,  and  they  help  one 
another  as  well  as  they  can.  To-day  it  is  one,  to-morrow 
it  is  another.  As  for  oneself,  what  with  courage  and 
good  spirit,  one  extricates  oneself.  But  to  see  a  poor 
young  man,  honest  and  good,  who  has  been  your  friend 
for  a  long  time,  —  to  see  him  accused  of  robbery,  and 
imprisoned  and  huddled  up  with  criminals  !  —  ah,  really, 
M.  Rodolph,  I  cannot  get  over  that ;  it  is  a  misfortune  I 
had  never  thought  of,  and  it  quite  upsets  me." 

"  Courage,  courage !  Your  spirits  will  return  when 
your  friend  is  acquitted." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  must  be  acquitted.  The  judges  have 
only  to  read  his  letter  to  me,  and  that  would  be  enough, 
—  would  it  not,  M.  Rodolph  ? " 

25 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Really,  this  letter  has  all  the  appearance  of  truth. 
You  must  let  me  have  a  copy  of  it,  for  it  will  be  neces- 
sary for  Germain's  defence." 

"  Certainly,  M.  Rodolph.  If  I  did  not  write  such  a 
scrawl,  in  spite  of  the  lessons  which  good  Germain  gave 
me,  I  would  offer  to  copy  it  myself ;  but  my  writing  is 
so  large,  so  crooked,  and  has  so  many,  many  faults." 

"  I  will  only  ask  you  to  trust  the  letter  with  me  until 
to-morrow  morning." 

"There  it  is;  but  you  will  take  great  care  of  it,  I 
hope.  I  have  burnt  all  the  notes  which  M.  Cabrion  and 
M.  Girandeau  wrote  me  in  the  beginning  of  our  acquain- 
tance, with  flaming  hearts  and  doves  at  the  top  of  the 
paper,  when  they  thought  I  was  to  be  caught  by  their 
tricks  and  cajoleries ;  but  this  poor  letter  of  Germain's  I 
will  keep  carefully,  as  well  as  the  others,  if  he  writes  me 
any  more ;  for  they,  you  know,  M.  Rodolph,  will  show 
in  my  favour  that  he  has  asked  these  small  services,  — 
won't  they,  M.  Rodolph  ? " 

"  Most  assuredly ;  and  they  will  prove  that  you  are 
the  best  little  friend  any  one  can  desire.  But,  now  I 
think  of  it,  instead  of  going  alone  to  Germain's  room, 
shall  I  accompany  you  ? " 

"  With  pleasure,  neighbour.  The  night  is  coming  on, 
and,  in  the  evening,  I  do  not  like  to  be  alone  in  the 
streets ;  besides  that,  I  have  my  work  to  carry  nearly  as 
far  as  the  Palais  Royal.  But  perhaps  it  will  fatigue 
and  annoy  you  to  go  so  f ar  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.    We  will  have  a  coach." 

"  Really !  Oh,  how  pleased  I  should  be  to  go  in  a 
coach  if  I  had  not  so  much  to  make  me  melancholy ! 
And  I  really  must  be  melancholy,  for  this  is  the  first 
day  since  I  have  been  here  that  I  have  not  sung  during 
the  day.  My  birds  are  really  quite  astonished.  Poor 
little  dears !  They  cannot  make  it  out.  Two  or  three 
times  Papa  Cre'tu  has  piped  a  little  to  try  me ;  I  endeav- 
oured to  answer  him,  but,  after  a  minute  or  two,  I  began 
26 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 


to  cry.  Ramonette  then  began  ;  but  I  could  not  answer 
one  any  better  than  the  other." 

"  What  singular  names  you  have  given  your  birds : 
Papa  Cre'tu  and  Ramonette !  " 

"  Why,  M.  Rodolph,  my  birds  are  the  joy  of  my 
solitude,  —  my  best  friends ;  and  I  have  given  them  the 
names  of  the  worthy  couple  who  were  the  joy  of  my 
childhood,  and  were  also  my  best  friends,  not  forget- 
ting that,  to  complete  the  resemblance,  Papa  Cre'tu  and 
Ramonette  were  gay,  and  sang  like  birds." 

"  Ah,  now,  yes,  I  remember,  your  adopted  parents  were 
called  so." 

"  Yes,  neighbour,  they  are  ridiculous  names  for  birds, 
I  know ;  but  that  concerns  no  one  but  myself.  And 
besides,  it  was  in  this  very  point  that  Germain  showed 
his  good  heart." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  Why,  M.  Girandeau  and  M.  Cabrion  —  especially  M. 
Cabrion  —  were  always  making  their  jokes  on  the  names 
of  my  birds.  To  call  a  canary  Papa  Cre'tu!  There 
never  was  such  nonsense  as  M.  Cabrion  made  of  it,  and 
his  jests  were  endless.  If  it  was  a  cock  bird,  he  said, 
'  Why,  that  would  be  well  enough  to  call  him  Cre'tu.  As 
to  Ramonette,  that's  well  enough  for  a  hen  canary,  for 
it  resembles  Ramona.'  In  fact,  he  quite  wore  my 
patience  out,  and  for  two  Sundays  I  would  not  go 
out  with  him  in  order  to  teach  him  a  lesson;  and  I 
told  him  very  seriously,  that  if  he  began  his  tricks, 
which  annoyed  me  so  much,  we  should  never  go  out 
together  again." 

"  What  a  bold  resolve  !  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  really  a  sacrifice  on  my  part,  M.  Ro- 
dolph, for  I  was  always  looking  forward  with  delight  to 
my  Sundays,  and  I  was  very  much  tried  by  being  kept 
in  all  alone  in  such  beautiful  weather.  But  that's  noth- 
ing. I  preferred  sacrificing  my  Sundays  to  hearing  M. 
Cabrion  continue  to  make  ridicule  of  those  whom 
27 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


I  respected.  Certainly,  after  that,  but  for  the  idea  I 
attached  to  them,  I  should  have  preferred  giving  my 
birds  other  names ;  and,  you  must  know,  there  is  one 
name  which  I  adore,  —  it  is  Colibri.1  I  did  not  change, 
because  I  never  will  call  those  birds  by  any  other  name 
than  Cretu  and  Ramonette ;  if  I  did,  I  should  seem  to 
make  a  sacrifice,  that  I  forgot  my  good,  adopted  parents, 
—  don't  you  think  so,  M.  Rodolph  ? " 

"  You  are  right  a  thousand  times  over.  And  Germain 
did  not  turn  these  names  into  a  jest,  eh  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  the  first  time  he  heard  them  he 
thought  them  droll,  like  every  one  else,  and  that  was 
natural  enough.  But  when  I  explained  to  him  my  rea- 
sons, as  I  had  many  times  explained  them  to  M.  Cabrion, 
tears  started  to  his  eyes.  From  that  time  I  said  to 
myself,  M.  Germain  is  very  kind-hearted,  and  there  is 
nothing  to  be  said  against  him,  but  his  weeping  so. 
And  so,  you  see,  M.  Rodolph,  my  reproaching  him  with 
his  sadness  has  made  me  unhappy  now.  Then  I  could 
not  understand  why  any  one  was  melancholy,  but  now 
I  understand  it  but  too  well.  But  now  my  packet  is 
completed,  and  my  work  is  ready  for  delivery.  Will 
you  hand  me  my  shawl,  neighbour  ?  It  is  not  cold 
enough  to  take  a  cloak,  is  it?" 

"  We  shall  go  and  return  in  a  coach." 

"  True ;  we  shall  go  and  return  very  quickly,  and 
that  will  be  so  much  gained." 

"  But,  now  I  think  of  it,  what  are  you  to  do  ?  Your 
work  will  suffer  from  your  visits  to  the  prison." 

"  Oh,  no,  no ;  I  have  made  my  calculations.  In  the 
first  place,  I  have  my  Sundays  to  myself,  so  I  shall  go 
and  see  Louise  and  Germain  on  those  days ;  that  will 
serve  me  for  a  walk  and  a  change.  Then,  in  the  week, 
I  shall  go  again  to  the  prison  once  or  twice.  Each  time 
will  occupy  me  three  good  hours,  won't  it  ?    Well,  to 


1  Colibri  is  a  celebrated  chanson  of  Beranger,  the  especial  poet  of  gri- 
settes.  —  English  Translator. 

28 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 


manage  this  comfortably,  I  shall  work  an  hour  more 
every  day,  and  go  to  bed  at  twelve  o'clock  instead  of 
eleven  o'clock ;  that  will  be  a  clear  gain  of  seven  or 
eight  hours  a  week,  which  I  can  employ  in  going  to  see 
Louise  and  Germain.  You  see  I  am  richer  than  I 
appear,"  added  Rigolette,  with  a  smile. 

"  And  you  have  no  fear  that  you  will  be  over- 
fatigued  ?  " 

"  Bah !  Not  at  all ;  I  shall  manage  it.  And,  besides, 
it  can't  last  for  ever." 

"  Here  is  your  shawl,  neighbour." 

"  Fasten  it ;  and  mind  you  don't  prick  me." 

"  Ah,  the  pin  is  bent." 

"Well,  then,  clumsy,  take  another  then,  —  from  the 
pincushion.  Ah,  I  forgot !  Will  you  do  me  a  great 
favour,  neighbour  ? " 

"  Command  me,  neighbour." 

"  Mend  me  a  good  pen,  with  a  broad  nib,  so  that  when 
I  return  I  may  write  to  poor  Germain,  and  tell  him  I 
have  executed  all  his  commissions.  He  will  have  my 
letter  to-morrow  morning  in  the  prison,  and  that  will 
give  him  pleasure." 

"  Where  are  your  pens  ?  " 

"There,  —  on  the  table;  the  knife  is  in  the  drawer. 
Wait  until  I  light  my  taper,  for  it  begins  to  grow  dusk." 
"  Yes,  I  shall  see  better  how  to  mend  the  pen." 
"  And  I  how  to  tie  my  cap." 

Rigolette  lighted  a  lucifer-match,  and  lighted  a 
wax-end  in  a  small  bright  candlestick. 

"  The  deuce,  —  a  wax-light !  Why,  neighbour,  what 
extravagance ! " 

"  Oh,  what  I  burn  costs  but  a  very  small  trifle  more 
than  a  candle,  and  it's  so  much  cleaner ! " 

"  Not  much  dearer  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  they  are  not !  I  buy  these  wax-ends  by  the 
pound,  and  a  half  a  pound  lasts  nearly  a  year." 

"  But,"  said  Rodolph,  who  was  mending  the  pen  very 
29 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


carefully,  whilst  the  grisette  was  tying  on  her  cap 
before  the  glass,  "  I  do  not  see  any  preparations  for 
your  dinner." 

"  I  have  not  the  least  appetite.  I  took  a  cup  of  milk 
this  morning,  and  I  shall  take  another  this  evening, 
with  a  small  piece  of  bread,  and  that  will  be  enough  for 
me." 

"  Then  you  will  not  take  a  dinner  with  me  quietly 
after  we  have  been  to  Germain's  ? " 

"  Thank  you,  neighbour ;  but  I  am  not  in  spirits,  — 
my  heart  is  too  heavy,  —  another  time  with  pleasure. 
But  the  evening  when  poor  Germain  leaves  his  prison, 
I  invite  myself,  and  afterwards  you  shall  take  me  to  the 
theatre.    Is  that  a  bargain  ?  " 

"  It  is,  neighbour ;  and  I  assure  you  I  will  not  forget 
the  engagement.    But  you  refuse  me  this  to-day  ? " 

"  Yes,  M.  Rodolph.  I  should  be  a  very  dull  com- 
panion, without  saying  a  word  about  the  time  it  would 
occupy  me  ;  for,  you  see,  at  this  moment,  I  really  cannot 
afford  to  be  idle,  or  waste  one  single  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Then,  for  to-day  I  renounce  the  pleasure." 

"  There  is  my  parcel,  neighbour.  Now  go  out  first, 
and  I  will  lock  the  door." 

"  Here's  a  capital  pen  for  you ;  and  now  for  the 
parcel." 

"  Mind  you  don't  rumple  it ;  it  is  pout-de-soie,  and 
soon  creases.  Hold  it  in  your  hand,  —  carefully, — 
there,  in  that  way ;  that's  it.  Now  go,  and  I  will 
show  you  a  light." 

And  Rodolph  descended  the  staircase,  followed  by 
Rigolette. 

At  the  moment  when  the  two  neighbours  were  passing 
by  the  door  of  the  porter's  lodge  they  saw  M.  Pipelet, 
who,  with  his  arms  hanging  down,  was  advancing  towards 
them  from  the  bottom  of  the  passage,  holding  in  one  hand 
the  sign  which  announced  his  Partnership  of  Friendship 
with  Cabrion,  and  in  the  other  the  portrait  of  the  con- 
30 


RIGOLETTE'S  FIRST  SORROW. 


founded  painter.  Alfred's  despair  was  so  overwhelming 
that  his  chin  touched  his  breast,  so  that  the  wide  crown 
of  his  bell-shaped  hat  was  easily  seen.  Seeing  him  thus, 
with  his  head  lowered,  coming  towards  Rodolph  and 
Rigolette,  he  might  have  been  compared  to  a  ram,  or 
a  brave  Breton,  preparing  for  combat. 

Anastasie  soon  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the 
lodge,  and  exclaimed,  at  her  husband's  appearance  : 

"  Well,  dearest  old  boy,  here  you  are !  And  what  did 
the  commissary  say  to  you?  Alfred,  Alfred,  mind 
what  you're  doing,  or  you'll  poke  your  head  against  my 
king  of  lodgers.  Excuse  him,  M.  Rodolph.  It  is  that 
vagabond  of  a  Cabrion,  who  uses  him  worse  and  worse. 
He'll  certainly  turn  my  dear  old  darling  into  a  donkey ! 
Alfred,  love,  speak  to  me !  " 

At  this  voice,  so  dear  to  his  heart,  M.  Pipelet  raised 
his  head.  His  features  were  impressed  with  a  bitter 
agony. 

"  What  did  the  commissary  say  to  you  ? "  inquired 
Anastasie. 

"  Anastasie,  we  must  collect  the  few  things  we  possess, 
embrace  our  friends,  pack  up  our  trunk,  and  expatriate 
ourselves  from  Paris,  —  from  France,  —  from  my  beauti- 
ful France ;  for  now,  assured  of  impunity,  the  monster 
is  capable  of  pursuing  me  everywhere,  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  departments  of  the  kingdom." 

"  What,  the  commissary  ?  " 

"  The  commissary,"  exclaimed  M.  Pipelet,  with  fierce 
indignation,  —  "  the  commissary  laughed  in  my  teeth  ! " 

"  At  you,  —  a  man  of  mature  age,  with  an  air  so 
respectable  that  you  would  appear  as  silly  as  a  goose 
if  one  did  not  know  your  virtues  ? " 

"  Well,  notwithstanding  that,  when  I  had  respectfully 
deposed  in  his  presence  my  mass  of  complaints  and  vexa- 
tions against  that  infernal  Cabrion,  the  magistrate,  after 
having  looked  and  laughed  —  yes,  laughed,  and,  I  may 
add,  laughed  indecorously  —  at  the  sign  and  the  portrait 
31 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


which  I  brought  with  me  as  corroborative  testimony,  — 
the  magistrate  replied,  1  My  good  fellow,  this  Cabrion  is 
a  wag,  —  a  practical  joker.  But  pay  no  attention  to  his 
pleasantries.  I  advise  you  to  laugh  at  him,  and  heartily, 
-  too,  for  really  there  is  ample  cause  to  do  so.'  '  To  laugh 
at  it,  sir-r-r ! '  I  exclaimed,  — '  to  laugh  at  it,  when  grief 
consumes  me,  —  when  this  scamp  poisons  my  very  exis- 
tence ;  he  placards  me,  and  will  drive  me  out  of  my  wits. 
I  demand  that  they  imprison,  exile  the  monster,  —  at  least 
from  my  street ! '  At  these  words  the  commissary 
smiled,  and  politely  pointed  to  the  door.  I  understood 
the  magistrate,  sighed,  and  —  and  — here  I  am  !  " 

"  Good-for-nothing  magistrate  !  "  exclaimed  Madame 
Pipelet. 

"  It  is  all  over,  Anastasie,  —  all  is  ended,  —  hope 
ceases.  There's  no  justice  in  France ;  I  am  really 
atrociously  sacrificed." 

And,  by  way  of  peroration,  M.  Pipelet  dashed  the  sign 
and  portrait  to  the  farther  end  of  the  passage  with  all 
his  force.  Rodolph  and  Rigolette  had  in  the  shade 
smiled  at  M.  Pipelet's  despair.  After  having  said 
a  few  words  of  consolation  to  Alfred,  whom  Anastasie 
was  trying  to  calm  as  well  as  she  could,  the  king  of 
lodgers  left  the  house  in  the  Rue  du  Temple  with 
Rigolette,  and  they  both  got  into  a  coach  to  go  to 
Francois  Germain's. 


32 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  WILL. 

Francois  Germain  resided  No.  11  Boulevard  St. 
Denis.  It  may  not  be  amiss  to  recall  to  the  reader, 
who  has  probably  forgotten  the  circumstance,  that  Ma- 
dame Mathieu,  the  diamond-matcher,  whose  name  has 
been  already  mentioned  as  the  person  for  whom  Morel 
the  lapidary  worked,  lodged  in  the  same  house  as  Ger- 
main. During  the  long  ride  from  the  Rue  du  Temple 
to  the  Rue  St.  Honored  where  dwelt  the  dressmaker 
for  whom  Rigolette  worked,  Rodolph  had  ample  oppor- 
tunities of  more  fully  appreciating  the  fine  natural  dis- 
position of  his  companion.  Like  all  instinctively  noble 
and  devoted  characters,  she  appeared  utterly  unconscious 
of  the  delicacy  and  generosity  of  her  conduct,  all  she 
said  and  did  seeming  to  her  as  the  most  simple  and 
matter-of-course  thing  possible. 

Nothing  would  have  been  more  easy  than  for  Rodolph 
to  provide  liberally  both  for  Rigolette's  present  and 
future  wants,  and  thus  to  have  enabled  her  to  carry  her 
consoling  attentions  to  Louise  and  Germain,  without 
grieving  over  the  loss  of  that  time  which  was  necessarily 
taken  from  her  work,  —  her  sole  dependence ;  but  the 
prince  was  unwilling  to  diminish  the  value  of  the  gri- 
sette's  devotion  by  removing  all  the  difficulties,  and, 
although  firmly  resolved  to  bestow  a  rich  reward  on  the 
rare  and  beautiful  qualities  he  hourly  discovered  in  her, 
he  determined  to  follow  her  to  the  termination  of  this 
new  and  interesting  trial.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
say  that,  had  the  health  of  the  young  girl  appeared  to 
33 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


suffer  in  the  smallest  degree  from  the  increase  of  labour 
she  so  courageously  imposed  on  herself,  in  order  to  ded- 
icate a  portion  of  each  week  to  the  unhappy  daughter  of 
the  lapidary  and  the  son  of  the  Schoolmaster,  Rodolph 
would  instantaneously  have  stepped  forward  to  her  aid  ; 
and  he  continued  to  study  with  equal  pleasure  and  emo- 
tion the  workings  of  a  nature  so  naturally  disposed  to 
view  everything  on  its  sunny  side,  so  full  of  internal 
happiness,  and  so  little  accustomed  to  sorrow  that  oc- 
casionally she  would  smile,  and  seem  the  mirthful  crea- 
ture nature  had  made  her,  spite  of  all  the  grief  by  which 
she  was  surrounded. 

At  the  end  of  about  an  hour,  the  fiacre,  returning 
from  the  Rue  St.  Honored  stopped  before  a  modest, 
unpretending  sort  of  house,  situated  No.  11  Boulevard 
St.  Denis.  Rodolph  assisted  Rigolette  to  alight.  The 
young  sempstress  then  proceeded  to  the  porter's  lodge, 
where  she  communicated  Germain's  intentions,  without 
forgetting  the  promised  gratuity. 

Owing  to  the  extreme  amenity  of  his  disposition,  the 
son  of  the  Schoolmaster  was  unusually  beloved,  and  the 
confrere  of  M.  Pipelet  was  deeply  grieved  to  learn  that 
so  quiet  and  well-conducted  a  lodger  was  about  to  quit 
the  house,  and  to  that  purpose  the  worthy  porter  warmly 
expressed  himself.  Having  obtained  a  light,  Rigolette 
proceeded  to  rejoin  her  companion,  having  first  arranged 
with  the  porter  that  he  should  not  follow  her  up-stairs 
till  a  time  she  indicated  should  have  elapsed,  and  then 
merely  to  receive  his  final  orders.  The  chamber  occu- 
pied by  Germain  was  situated  on  the  fourth  floor.  "When 
they  reached  the  door,  Rigolette  handed  the  key  to 
Rodolph,  saying : 

"  Here,  will  you  open  the  door  ?  My  hand  trembles 
so  violently,  I  cannot  do  it.  I  fear  you  will  laugh  at 
me.  But,  when  I  think  that  poor  Germain  will  never 
more  enter  this  room,  I  seem  as  though  I  were  about  to 
pass  the  threshold  of  a  chamber  of  death." 

34 


THE  WILL. 


«  Come,  come,  my  good  neighbour,  try  and  exert  your- 
self ;  you  must  not  indulge  such  thoughts  as  these." 

"  I  know  it  is  wrong ;  but,  indeed,  I  cannot  help  it." 
And  here  Rigolette  tried  to  dry  up  the  tears  with  which 
her  eyes  were  filled. 

Without  being  equally  affected  as  his  companion, 
Rodolph  still  experienced  a  deep  and  painful  emotion 
as  he  penetrated  into  this  humble  abode.  Well  aware  of 
the  detestable  pertinacity  with  which  the  accomplices 
of  the  Schoolmaster  pursued,  and  were  possibly  still  pur- 
suing, Germain,  he  pictured  to  himself  the  many  hours 
the  unfortunate  youth  was  constrained  to  pass  in  this 
cheerless  solitude.  Rigolette  placed  the  light  on  the 
table.  Nothing  could  possibly  be  more  simple  than 
the  fittings-up  of  the  apartment  itself.  Its  sole  furni- 
ture consisted  of  a  small  bed,  a  chest  of  drawers,  a  wal- 
nut-tree bureau,  four  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and  a  table  ; 
white  calico  curtains  hung  from  the  windows  and  around 
the  bed.  The  only  ornament  the  mantelpiece  presented 
was  a  water-bottle  and  glass.  The  bed  was  made  ;  but, 
by  the  impression  left  on  it,  it  would  seem  that  Germain 
had  thrown  himself  on  it  without  undressing  on  the 
night  previous  to  his  arrest. 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  said  Rigolette,  sadly,  as  she  examined 
each  minute  detail  of  the  interior  of  the  apartment ;  "  it 
is  very  easy  to  see  I  was  not  near  him.  His  room  is 
tidy,  to  be  sure,  but  not  as  neat  as  it  ought  to  be.  Every- 
thing is  covered  with  dust.  The  curtains  are  smoke- 
dried,  the  windows  want  cleaning,  and  the  floor  is  not 
kept  as  it  should  be.  Oh,  dear,  what  a  difference  ! 
The  Rue  du  Temple  was  not  a  better  room,  but  it  had 
a  much  more  cheerful  look,  because  everything  was  kept 
so  bright  and  clean,  —  like  in  my  apartment !  " 

"  Because  in  the  Rue  du  Temple  he  had  the  benefit  of 
your  advice  and  assistance." 

"  Oh,  pray  look  here ! "  cried  Rigolette,  pointing  to 
the  bed.  "Only  see,  —  the  poor  fellow  never  went 
35 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


to  bed  at  all  the  last  night  he  was  here  !  How  uneasy 
he  must  have  been !  See,  he  has  left  his  handkerchief 
on  his  pillow,  quite  wet  with  his  tears  !  I  can  see  that 
plainly  enough."  Then,  taking  up  the  handkerchief, 
she  added,  "  Germain  has  kept  a  small,  orange-coloured 
silk  cravat  I  gave  him  once  during  our  happy  days.  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  keep  this  handkerchief  in  remembrance 
of  his  misfortune.    Do  you  think  he  would  be  angry  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  would  but  be  too  much  de- 
lighted with  such  a  mark  of  your  affection." 

"  Ah,  but  we  must  not  indulge  in  such  thoughts  now ; 
let  us  attend  to  more  serious  matters.  I  will  make  up 
a  parcel  of  linen  from  the  contents  of  those  drawers, 
ready  to  take  to  the  prison,  and  Mother  Bouvard,  whom 
I  will  send  to-morrow,  will  see  to  the  rest ;  but  first  of 
all  I  will  open  the  bureau,  in  order  to  get  out  the  papers 
and  money  Germain  wished  me  to  take  charge  of." 

"  But,  now  I  think  of  it,  Louise  Morel  gave  me 
back  yesterday  the  thirteen  hundred  francs  in  gold  she 
received  from  Germain,  to  pay  the  lapidary's  debt, 
which  I  had  already  discharged.  I  have  this  money 
about  me ;  it  justly  belongs  to  Germain,  since  he  repaid 
the  notary  what  he  withdrew  from  the  cash-box.  I  will 
place  it  in  your  hands,  in  order  that  you  may  add  it  to 
the  sum  entrusted  to  your  care." 

"Just  as  you  like,  M.  Rodolph,  although  really  I 
should  prefer  not  having  so  large  a  sum  in  my  posses- 
sion, really  there  are  so  many  dishonest  people  nowa- 
days !  As  for  papers,  that's  quite  another  thing ;  I'll 
willingly  take  charge  of  as  many  papers  as  you  please, 
but  money  is  such  a  dangerous  thing !  " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right ;  then  I  tell  you  what  we  will 
do  —  eh,  neighbour?  I  will  be  banker,  and  undertake 
the  responsibility  of  guarding  this  money.  Should  Ger- 
main require  anything,  you  can  let  me  know  ;  I  will 
leave  you  my  address,  and  whatever  you  send  for  shall 
be  punctually  and  faithfully  sent." 

36 


THE  WILL. 


"  Oh,  dear,  yes,  that  will  be  very  much  better !  How 
good  of  you  to  offer,  for  I  could  not  have  ventured  to 
propose  such  a  thing  to  you !  So  that  is  settled  ;  I  will 
beg  of  you,  also,  to  take  whatever  this  furniture  sells 
for.  And  now  let  us  see  about  the  papers,"  continued 
Rigolette,  opening  the  bureau  and  pulling  out  several 
drawers.  "  Ah,  I  dare  say  this  is  it !  See  what  a  large 
packet !  But,  oh,  good  gracious,  M.  Rodolph,  do  pray 
look  what  mournful  words  these  are  written  on  the 
outside !  " 

And  here  Rigolette,  in  a  faltering  voice,  read  as 
follows  : 

'"In  the  event  of  my  dying  by  either  a  violent  or 
natural  death,  I  request  whoever  may  open  this  bureau 
to  carry  these  papers  to  Mile.  Rigolette,  dressmaker,  No. 
17  Rue  du  Temple.'  Do  you  think,  M.  Rodolph,  that  I 
may  break  the  seals  of  the  envelope  ? " 

"  Undoubtedly  ;  does  not  Germain  expressly  say  that 
among  the  papers  you  will  find  a  letter  particularly 
addressed  to  yourself  ?  " 

The  agitated  girl  broke  the  seals  which  secured  the 
outward  cover,  and  from  it  fell  a  quantity  of  papers,  one 
of  which,  bearing  the  superscription  of  Mile.  Rigolette, 
contained  these  words : 

.  "  Mademoiselle  :  —  When  this  letter  reaches  your  hands,  I 
shall  be  no  more,  if,  as  I  fear,  I  should  perish  by  a  violent  death, 
through  falling  into  a  snare  similar  to  that  from  which  I  lately 
escaped.  A  few  particulars  herein  enclosed,  and  entitled  '  Notes 
on  My  Life,'  may  serve  to  discover  my  murderers." 

"  Ah,  M.  Rodolph,"  cried  Rigolette,  interrupting  her- 
self, "  I  am  no  longer  astonished  poor  Germain  was  so 
melancholy !  How  very  dreadful  to  be  continually 
pursued  by  such  ideas ! " 

"  He  must,  indeed,  have  suffered  deeply ;  but,  trust 
me,  his  worst  misfortunes  are  over." 

37 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Alas,  M.  Rodolph,  I  trust  it  may  prove  so !  Still, 
to  be  in  prison,  and  accused  of  theft !  " 

"  Make  yourself  quite  easy  about  him ;  his  innocence 
once  proved,  instead  of  returning  to  his  former  seclusion 
and  loneliness,  he  will  regain  his  friends.  You,  first 
and  foremost,  and  then  a  dearly  loved  mother,  from 
whom  he  has  been  separated  from  his  childhood." 

"  His  mother !    Has  he,  then,  still  a  mother  ? " 

"  He  has,  but  she  has  long  believed  him  lost  to  her 
for  ever.  Imagine  her  delight  at  seeing  him  again, 
cleared  from  the  unworthy  charge  now  brought  against 
him.  You  see  I  was  right  in  saying  that  his  greatest 
troubles  were  over ;  do  not  mention  his  mother  to  him. 
I  entrust  you  with  the  secret,  because  you  take  so  gen- 
erous an  interest  in  the  fate  of  Germain  that  it  is  but 
due  to  your  devotedness  that  you  should  be  tranquillised 
as  to  his  future  fate." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  M.  Rodolph  !  I  promise  you  to  guard 
the  secret  as  carefully  as  you  could  do." 

Rigolette  then  proceeded  with  the  perusal  of  Ger- 
main's letter ;  it  continued  thus  : 

"  '  Should  you  deign,  mademoiselle,  to  cast  your  eyes  over  these 
notes,  you  will  find  that  I  have  been  unfortunate  all  my  life, 
always  unhappy,  except  during  the  hours  I  have  passed  with  you ; 
you  will  find  sentiments  I  should  never  have  ventured  to  express 
by  words  fully  revealed  in  a  sort  of  memorandum,  entitled  "  My 
Only  Days  of  Happiness."  Nearly  every  evening,  after  quitting 
you,  I  thus  poured  forth  the  cheering  thoughts  with  which  your 
affection  inspired  me,  and  which  only  sweetened  the  bitterness  of 
a  cup  full  even  to  overflowing.  That  which  was  but  friendship 
in  you,  was,  in  my  breast,  the  purest,  the  sincerest  love  ;  but  of 
that  love  I  have  never  spoken.  No,  I  reserved  its  full  disclosure 
till  the  moment  should  arrive  when  I  could  be  but  as  an  object 
of  your  sorrowing  recollection.  No,  never  would  I  have  sought 
to  involve  you  in  a  destiny  as  thoroughly  miserable  as  my  own. 
But,  when  your  eye  peruses  these  pages,  there  will  be  nothing  to 
fear  from  the  power  of  my  ill-starred  fate.  I  shall  have  been 
your  faithful  friend,  your  adoring  lover,  but  I  shall  no  longer  be 
dangerous  to  your  future  happiness  in  either  sense.  I  have  but 
38 


THE  WILL. 


one  last  -wish  and  desire,  and  I  trust  that  you  -will  kindly  accom- 
plish it.  I  have  witnessed  the  noble  courage  with  which  you 
labour  day  by  day,  as  well  as  the  care  and  management  reqiiisite 
to  make  your  hard-earned  gain  suffice  for  your  moderate  wants. 
Often  have  I  shuddered  at  the  bare  idea  of  your  being  reduced 
by  illness  (brought  on,  probably,  by  overattention  to  your  work) 
to  a  state  too  frightful  to  dwell  upon.  And  it  is  no  small  conso- 
lation to  me  to  believe  it  in  my  power  to  spare  you,  not  only  a 
considerable  share  of  personal  inconvenience,  but  also  to  preserve 
you  from  evils  your  unsuspicious  nature  dreams  not  of.' 

"  What  does  that  last  part  mean,  M.  Rodolph  ? "  asked 
Rigolette,  much  surprised. 

"  Proceed  with  the  letter ;  we  shall  see  by  and  by." 
Rigolette  thus  resumed : 

" '  I  know  upon  how  little  you  can  live,  and  of  what  service 
even  a  small  sum  would  be  to  you  in  any  case  of  emergency.  I 
am  very  poor  myself,  but  still,  by  dint  of  rigid  economy,  I  have 
managed  to  save  fifteen  hundred  francs,  which  are  placed  in  the 
hands  of  a  banker :  it  is  all  I  am  worth  in  the  world,  but  by  my 
will,  which  you  will  find  with  this,  I  have  ventured  to  bequeath 
it  to  you;  and  I  trust  you  will  not  refuse  to  accept  this  last 
proof  of  the  sincere  affection  of  a  friend  and  brother,  from  whom 
death  will  have  separated  you  when  this  meets  your  eye.' 

"  Oh,  M.  Rodolph,"  cried  Rigolette,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  this  is  too  much  !  Kind,  good  Germain,  thus 
to  consider  my  future  welfare !  What  an  excellent 
heart  he  must  have  !." 

"  Worthy  and  noble-minded  young  man ! "  rejoined 
Rodolph,  with  deep  emotion.  "  But  calm  yourself,  my 
good  girl.  Thank  God,  Germain  is  still  living !  And, 
by  anticipating  the  perusal  of  his  last  wishes,  you  will 
at  least  have  learned  how  sincerely  he  loved  you,  —  nay, 
still  loves  you  !  " 

"  And  only  to  think,"  said  Rigolette,  drying  up  her 
tears,  "  that  I  should  never  once  have  suspected  it ! 
When  first  I  knew  M.  Girandeau  and  M.  Cabrion,  they 
were  always  talking  to  me  of  their  violent  love,  and 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


flames,  and  darts,  and  such  stuff ;  but  finding  I  took  no 
notice  of  them,  they  left  off  wearying  me  with  such  non- 
sense. Now,  on  the  contrary,  Germain  never  named 
love  to  me.  When  I  proposed  to  him  that  we  should 
be  good  friends,  he  accepted  the  offer  as  frankly  as  it 
was  made,  and  ever  after  that  we  were  always  excellent 
companions  and  neighbours ;  but  —  now  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  M.  Rodolph,  that  I  was  not  sorry  Germain 
never  talked  to  me  in  the  same  silly  strain." 

"  But  still  it  astonished  you,  did  it  not  ? " 

"  Why,  M.  Rodolph,  I  ascribed  it  to  his  melancholy, 
and  I  fancied  his  low  spirits  prevented  his  joking  like 
the  others." 

"  And  you  felt  angry  with  him,  did  you  not,  for  always 
being  so  sad  ? " 

"  No,"  said  the  grisette,  ingenuously  ;  "  no,  I  excused 
him,  because  it  was  the  only  fault  he  had.  But  now 
that  I  have  read  his  kind  and  feeling  letter,  I  cannot 
forgive  myself  for  ever  having  blamed  him  even  for  that 
one  thing." 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  Rodolph,  smiling,  "  you  find 
that  he  had  many  and  just  causes  for  his  sadness ;  and 
secondly,  that,  spite  of  his  melancholy,  he  did  love  you 
deeply  and  sincerely." 

"  To  be  sure ;  and  it  seems  a  thing  to  be  proud  of,  to 
be  loved  by  so  excellent  a  young  man !  " 

"  Whose  love  you  will,  no  doubt,  return  one  of  these 
days  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  M.  Rodolph,  though  it  is 
very  likely,  for  poor  Germain  is  so  much  to  be  pitied. 
I  can  imagine  myself  in  his  place.  Suppose,  just  when 
I  fancied  myself  despised  and  forsaken  by  all  the  world, 
some  one  whom  I  loved  very  dearly  should  evince  for 
me  more  regard  than  I  had  ventured  to  hope  for,  don't 
you  think  it  would  make  me  very  happy  ? "  Then,  after 
a  short  silence,  Rigolette  continued,  with  a  sigh,  "  On  the 
other  hand,  we  are  both  so  poor  that,  perhaps,  it  would 
40 


THE  WILL. 


be  very  imprudent.  Ah,  well,  M.  Rodolph,  I  must  not 
think  of  such  things.  Perhaps,  too,  I  deceive  myself. 
One  thing,  however,  is  quite  sure,  and  that  is,  that  so 
long  as  Germain  remains  in  prison  I  will  do  all  in  my 
power  for  him.  It  will  be  time  enough  when  he  has 
regained  his  liberty  for  me  to  determine  whether  'tis 
love  or  friendship  I  feel  for  him.  Until  then  it  would 
only  torment  me  needlessly  to  try  to  make  up  my  mind 
what  I  had  better  do.  But  it  is  getting  late,  M.  E-odolph. 
Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  collect  all  those  papers, 
while  I  make  up  a  parcel  of  linen  ?  Ah,  I  forgot  the 
little  bag  containing  the  little  orange-coloured  cravat  I 
gave  him.  No  doubt  it  is  here  —  in  this  drawer.  Oh, 
yes,  this  is  it.  Oh,  see,  what  a  pretty  bag  !  How  nicely 
embroidered !  Poor  Germain  !  I  declare  he  has  kept 
such  a  trifle  as  this  little  handkerchief  with  as  much  care 
as  though  it  had  been  some  holy  relic.  I  well  remember 
the  last  time  I  had  it  around  my  throat;  and  when  I 
gave  it  to  him,  poor  fellow,  how  very  pleased  he  was !" 

At  this  moment  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Who's  there  ? "  inquired  Eodolph. 

"  Want  to  speak  to  Ma'am  Mathieu,"  replied  a  harsh, 
hoarse  voice,  and  in  a  tone  which  is  peculiar  to  the 
lowest  orders.  (Madame  Mathieu  was  the  matcher  of 
precious  stones  to  whom  we  have  before  referred.) 

This  voice,  whose  accent  was  peculiar,  awoke  some 
vague  recollections  in  Rodolph's  breast ;  and,  desirous 
of  elucidating  them,  he  took  the  light,  and  went  himself 
to  open  the  door.  He  found  himself  confronted  by  a 
man  who  was  one  of  the  frequenters  of  the  tapis-franc 
of  the  ogress,  and  recognised  him  instantly,  so  deeply 
was  the  print  of  vice  stamped  upon  him,  so  completely 
marked  on  his  beardless  and  youthful  features.  It 
was  Barbillon. 

Barbillon,  the  pretended  hackney-coachman,  who  had 
driven  the  Schoolmaster  and  the  Chouette  to  the  hol- 
low way  of  Bouqueval,  —  Barbillon,  the  assassin  of  the 
41 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


husband  of  the  unhappy  milkwoman,  who  had  set  the 
labourers  of  the  farm  at  Arnouville  on  against  La 
Goualeuse.  Whether  this  wretch  had  forgotten  Ro- 
dolph's  face,  which  he  had  never  seen  but  once  at  the 
tapis-franc  of  the  ogress,  or  that  the  change  of  dress 
prevented  him  from  recognising  the  Chourineur's  con- 
queror, he  did  not  evince  the  slightest  surprise  at  his 
appearance. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  inquired  Rodolph. 

"  Here's  a  letter  for  Ma'am  Mathieu,  and  I  must  give 
it  to  her  myself,"  was  Barbillon's  reply. 

"  She  does  not  live  here, —  it's  opposite,"  said  Rodolph. 

"  Thank  ye,  master.  They  told  me  the  left-hand  door  ; 
but  I've  mistook." 

Rodolph  did  not  recollect  the  name  of  the  diamond- 
matcher,  which  Morel  the  lapidary  had  only  mentioned 
once  or  twice,  and  thus  had  no  motive  for  interesting 
himself  in  the  female  to  whom  Barbillon  came  with  his 
message ;  but  yet,  although  ignorant  of  the  ruffian's 
crimes,  his  face  was  so  decidedly  repulsive  that  he 
remained  at  the  threshold  of  the  door,  curious  to  see  the 
person  to  whom  Barbillon  brought  the  letter. 

Barbillon  had  scarcely  knocked  at  the  door  opposite 
to  Germain's,  than  it  opened,  and  the  jewel-matcher,  a 
stout  woman  of  about  fifty,  appeared  with  a  candle  in 
her  hand. 

"  Ma'am  Mathieu  ?  "  inquired  Barbillon. 
"  That's  me,  my  man." 

"  Here's  a  letter,  and  I  waits  for  an  answer." 

And  Barbillon  made  a  step  forward  to  enter  the  door- 
way, but  the  woman  made  him  a  sign  to  remain  where 
he  was,  and  unsealed  the  letter,  which  she  read  by  the 
light  of  the  candle  she  held,  and  then  replied  with  an 
air  of  satisfaction : 

"  Say  it's  all  right,  my  man,  and  I  will  bring  what  is 
required.  I  will  be  there  at  the  same  hour  as  usual. 
My  respects  to  the  lady." 

42 


THE  WILL. 


"  Yes,  missus.    Please  to  remember  the  porter !  " 

"  Oh,  you  must  ask  them  as  sent  you ;  they  are  richer 
than  I  am."    And  she  shut  the  door. 

Rodolph  returned  to  Germain's  room,  when  he  .saw 
Barbillon  run  quickly  down  the  staircase.  The  ruffian 
found  on  the  boulevard  a  man  of  low-lived,  brutal 
appearance,  waiting  for  him  in  front  of  a  shop. 
Although  the  passers-by  could  hear  (it  is  true  they 
could  not  comprehend),  Barbillon  appeared  so  delighted 
that  he  could  not  help  saying  to  his  companion : 

"  Come  and  '  lush  a  drain  of  red  tape,'  Nicholas ;  the 
old  mot  swallows  the  bait,  hook  and  all.  She'll  show 
at  the  Chouette's.  Old  Mother  Martial  will  lend  a  hand 
to  peel  her  of  the  swag,  and  a'terwards  we  can  box  the 
'  cold  meat'  in  your  '  barkey.'  "  1 

"  Let's  mizzle, 2  then  ;  for  I  must  get  back  to  Asnieres 
early,  or  else  my  brother  Martial  will  smell  summut." 

And  the  two  robbers,  after  having  exchanged  these 
words  in  their  own  slang,  went  towards  the  Rue  St. 
Denis. 

Some  minutes  afterwards  Rigolette  and  Rodolph  left 
Germain's,  got  into  the  hackney-coach,  and  reached  the 
Rue  du  Temple. 

The  coach  stopped. 

At  the  moment  when  the  door  opened,  Rodolph 
recognised  by  the  light  of  the  dram-shop  lamps  his 
faithful  Murphy,  who  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  door 
of  the  entrance. 

The  squire's  presence  always  announced  some  serious 
and  sudden  event,  for  it  was  he  alone  who  knew  at  all 
times  where  to  find  the  prince. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  inquired  Rodolph,  quickly, 

1 "  Come  and  let's  have  some  brandy  together,  Nicholas.  The  old  woman 
falls  easily  into  the  snare.  She  will  come  to  the  Chouette's ;  Mother  Martial 
will  help  us  to  take  her  jewels  from  her  forcibly,  and  then  we  can  remove 
the  dead  body  away  in  your  boat." 

2  "  Let's  be  quick,  then." 

43 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


whilst  Rigolette  was  collecting  several  things  out  of 
the  vehicle. 

"  A  terrible  circumstance,  monseigneur ! " 

"  Speak,  in  heaven's  name  ! " 

"  M.  the  Marquis  d'Harville  —  " 

"  You  alarm  me  ! " 

"  Had  several  friends  to  breakfast  with  him  this  morn- 
ing. He  was  in  high  spirits,  had  never  been  more  joy- 
ous, when  a  fatal  imprudence  —  " 

"  Pray  come  to  the  point  —  pray ! " 

"  And  playing  with  a  pistol,  which  he  did  not  believe 
to  be  loaded  —  " 

"  Wounded  himself  seriously." 

"  Monseigneur ! " 

»  Well  ?  " 

"  Something  dreadful ! " 
"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 
"  He  is  dead !  " 

"  D'Harville !  Ah,  how  horrible ! "  exclaimed  Rodolph, 
in  a  tone  so  agonised  that  Rigolette,  who  was  at  the 
moment  quitting  the  coach  with  the  parcels,  said : 

"  Alas  !  what  ails  you,  M.  Rodolph  ? " 

"  Some  very  distressing  information  I  have  just  told 
my  friend,  mademoiselle,"  said  Murphy  to  the  young 
girl,  for  the  prince  was  so  overcome  that  he  could 
not  reply. 

"  Is  it,  then,  some  dreadful  misfortune  ? "  said 
Rigolette,  trembling  all  over. 

"  Very  dreadful,  indeed  !  "  replied  the  squire. 

"  Yes,  most  awful ! "  said  Rodolph,  after  a  few 
moment's  silence ;  then  recollecting  Rigolette,  he  said 
to  her,  "  Excuse  me,  my  dear  neighbour,  if  I  do  not  go 
up  to  your  room  with  you.  To-morrow  I  will  send  you 
my  address,  and  an  order  to  go  to  see  Germain  in  his 
prison.    I  will  soon  see  you  again." 

"  Ah,  M.  Rodolph,  I  assure  you  that  I  share  in  the 
grief  you  now  experience !  I  thank  you  very  much  for 
44 


THE  WILL. 


having  accompanied  me ;  but  I  shall  soon  see  you  again, 
sha'n'tl?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  very  soon." 

"  Good  evening,  M.  Rodolph,"  added  Rigolette,  and 
then  disappeared  down  the  passage  with  the  various 
things  she  had  brought  away  from  Germain's  room. 

The  prince  and  Murphy  got  into  the  hackney-coach, 
which  took  them  to  the  Rue  Plumet.  Rodolph  imme- 
diately wrote  the  following  note  to  Cle'mence  : 

"  Madame  :  —  I  have  this  instant  learned  the  sudden  blow 
which  has  struck  you,  and  deprived  me  of  one  of  my  best  friends. 
I  forbear  any  attempt  to  portray  my  horror  and  my  regret.  Yet  I 
must  mention  to  you  certain  circumstances  unconnected  with  this 
cruel  event.  I  have  just  learned  that  your  stepmother,  who  has 
been,  no  doubt,  in  Paris  for  several  days,  returns  this  evening  to 
Normandy,  taking  with  her  Polidori.  No  doubt  but  this  fact 
will  convince  you  of  the  peril  which  threatens  your  father ;  and 
pray  allow  me  to  give  you  some  advice,  which  I  think  requisite. 
After  the  appalling  event  of  this  morning,  every  one  must  but  too 
easily  conceive  your  anxiety  to  quit  Paris  for  some  time;  go, 
therefore,  go  at  once,  to  Aubiers,  so  that  you  may  arrive  there 
before  your  stepmother,  or,  at  least,  as  soon  as  she.  Make  your- 
self easy,  madame,  for  I  shall  watch  at  a  distance,  as  well  as 
close,  the  abominable  projects  of  your  stepmother.  Adieu, 
madame ;  I  write  these  few  lines  to  you  in  great  haste.  My 
heart  is  lacerated  when  I  remember  yesterday  evening,  when  I 
left  him,  —  him,  —  more  tranquil  and  more  happy  than  he  had 
been  for  a  very  long  time. 

"  Believe,  madame,  in  my  deep  and  lasting  devotion, 

"  Rodolph." 

Following  the  prince's  advice,  three  hours  after  she 
had  received  this  letter,  Madame  d'Harville,  accompanied 
by  her  daughter,  was  on  the  road  to  Normandy.  A  post- 
chaise,  despatched  from  Rodolph's  mansion,  followed  in 
the  same  route.  Unfortunately,  in  the  troubled  state  into 
which  this  complication  of  events  and  the  hurry  of  her 
departure  had  driven  her,  Cle'mence  had  forgotten  to 
inform  the  prince  that  she  had  met  Fleur-de-Marie  at 
St.  Lazare. 


45 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Our  readers  may,  perhaps,  remember  that,  on  the 
previous  evening,  the  Chouette  had  been  menacing 
Madame  S6raphin,  and  threatening  to  unfold  the  whole 
history  of  La  Goualeuse's  existence,  affirming  that  she 
knew  (and  she  spoke  truth)  where  the  young  girl  then 
was.  The  reader  may  also  recollect  that,  after  this  con- 
versation, the  notary,  Jacques  Ferrand,  dreading  the 
disclosure  of  his  criminal  course,  believed  that  he  had 
a  strong  motive  for  effecting  the  disappearance  of  La 
Goualeuse,  whose  existence,  once  known,  would  com- 
promise him  fatally.  He  had,  in  consequence,  written 
to  Bradamanti,  one  of  his  accomplices,  to  come  to  him 
that  they  might  together  arrange  a  fresh  plot,  of  which 
Fleur-de-Marie  was  to  be  the  victim.  Bradamanti,  occu- 
pied by  the  no  less  pressing  interests  of  Madame  d'Har- 
ville's  stepmother,  who  had  her  own  sinister  motives  for 
taking  the  charlatan  with  her  to  M.  d'Orbigny,  finding 
it,  no  doubt,  more  profitable  to  serve  his  ancient  female 
ally,  did  not  attend  to  the  notary's  appointment,  but  set 
out  for  Normandy  without  seeing  Madame  S6raphin. 

The  storm  was  gathering  over  the  head  of  Jacques 
Ferrand.  During  the  day  the  Chouette  had  returned  to 
reiterate  her  threats ;  and  to  prove  that  they  were  not 
vain,  she  declared  to  the  notary  that  the  little  girl, 
formerly  abandoned  by  Madame  SeYaphin,  was  then  a 
prisoner  in  St.  Lazare,  under  the  name  of  La  Goualeuse ; 
and  that  if  he  did  not  give  ten  thousand  francs  (400Z.) 
in  three  days,  this  young  girl  would  receive  the  papers 
which  belonged  to  her,  and  which  would  instruct  her 
that  she  had  been  confided  in  her  infancy  to  the  care  of 
Jacques  Ferrand.  According  to  his  custom,  the  notary 
denied  all  boldly,  and  drove  the  Chouette  away  as  an 
impudent  liar,  although  he  was  perfectly  convinced,  and 
greatly  alarmed  at  the  dangerous  drift  of  her  threats. 
Thanks  to  his  numerous  connections,  the  notary  found 
means  to  ascertain  that  very  day  (during  the  conversa- 
tion of  Fleur-de-Marie  and  Madame  d'Harville)  that  La 
46 


THE  WILL. 


Goualeuse  was  actually  a  prisoner  in  St.  Lazare,  and  so 
marked  for  her  good  conduct  that  they  were  expecting 
her  discharge  every  moment.  Thus  informed,  Jacques 
Ferrand,  having  determined  on  his  deadly  scheme,  felt 
that,  in  order  to  carry  it  into  execution,  Bradamanti's 
help  was  more  than  ever  indispensable ;  and  thereon 
came  Madame  Se'raphin's  vain  attempts  to  see  the 
doctor.  Having  at  length  heard,  in  the  evening,  of 
the  departure  of  the  charlatan,  the  notary,  driven  to 
act  by  the  imminence  of  his  fears  and  danger,  recalled 
to  mind  the  Martial  family,  those  freshwater  pirates 
established  near  the  bridge  of  Asni&res,  with  whom 
Bradamanti  had  proposed  to  place  Louise,  in  order  to 
get  rid  of  her  undetected.  Having  absolutely  need  of 
an  accomplice  to  carry  out  his  deadly  purposes  against 
Fleur-de-Marie,  the  notary  took  every  precaution  not  to 
be  compromised  in  case  a  fresh  crime  should  be  com- 
mitted ;  and,  the  day  after  Bradamanti's  departure  for 
Normandy,  Madame  Se'raphin  went  with  all  speed  to  the 
Martials. 


47 


CHAPTER  III. 


l'ile  du  ravageub. 

The  following  scenes  took  place  during  the  evening  of 
the  day  in  which  Madame  Seraphin,  in  compliance  with 
Jacques  Ferrand  the  notary's  orders,  went  to  the  Mar- 
tials,  the  freshwater  pirates  established  at  the  point  of 
a  small  islet  of  the  Seine,  not  far  from  the  bridge  of 
Asnieres. 

The  Father  Martial  had  died,  like  his  own  father,  on 
the  scaffold,  leaving  a  widow,  four  sons,  and  two  daugh- 
ters. The  second  of  these  sons  was  already  condemned 
to  the  galleys  for  life,  and  of  the  rest  of  this  numerous 
family  there  remained  in  the  He  du  Ravageur  (a  name 
which  was  popularly  given  to  this  place  ;  why,  we  will 
hereafter  explain)  the  Mother  Martial ;  three  sons,  the 
eldest  (La  Louve's  lover)  twenty-five  years  of  age,  the 
next  twenty,  and  the  youngest  twelve ;  two  girls,  one 
eighteen  years  of  age,  the  second  nine. 

The  examples  of  such  families,  in  whom  there  is 
perpetuated  a  sort  of  fearful  inheritance  of  crime,  are 
but  too  frequent.  And  this  must  be  so.  Let  us  repeat, 
unceasingly,  society  thinks  of  punishing,  but  never  of 
preventing,  crime.  A  criminal  is  sentenced  to  the 
galleys  for  life ;  another  is  executed.  These  felons  will 
leave  young  families ;  does  society  take  any  care  or 
heed  of  these  orphans,  —  these  orphans,  whom  it  has 
made  so,  by  visiting  their  father  with  a  civil  death,  or 
cutting  off  his, head?  Does  it  substitute  any  careful 
or  preserving  guardianship  after  the  removal  of  him 
48 


L'lLE  DU  RAVAGEUR. 


whom  the  law  has  declared  to  be  unworthy,  infamous,  — 
after  the  removal  of  him  whom  the  law  has  put  to 
death?  No;  "the  poison  dies  with  the  beast,"  says 
society.  It  is  deceived ;  the  poison  of  corruption  is  so 
subtle,  so  corrosive,  so  contagious,  that  it  becomes  almost 
invariably  hereditary ;  but,  if  counteracted  in  time,  it 
would  never  be  incurable.  Strange  contradiction  !  Dis- 
section proves  that  a  man  dies  of  a  malady  that  may 
be  transmitted,  and  then,  by  precautionary  measures, 
his  descendants  are  preserved  from  the  affection  of 
which  he  has  been  the  victim.  Let  the  same  facts  be 
produced  in  the  moral  order  of  things ;  let  it  be  demon- 
strated that  a  criminal  almost  always  bequeaths  to  his 
son  the  germ  of  a  precocious  depravity.  Will  society 
do  for  the  safety  of  this  young  soul  what  the  doctor 
does  for  the  body,  when  it  is  a  question  of  contending 
against  hereditary  vitiation  ?  No ;  instead  of  curing 
this  unhappy  creature,  we  leave  him  to  be  gangrened, 
even  to  death  ;  and  then,  in  the  same  way  as  the  people 
believe  the  son  of  the  executioner  to  be  an  executioner, 
perforce,  also,  they  will  believe  the  son  of  a  criminal 
also  a  criminal.  And  then  we  consider  that  the  result 
of  an  inheritance  inexorably  fatal,  which  is  really  a 
corruption  caused  by  the  egotistical  neglect  of  society. 
Thus,  if,  in  spite  of  the  evil  mark  on  his  name,  the 
orphan,  whom  the  law  has  made  so,  remains,  by  chance, 
industrious  and  honest,  a  barbarous  prejudice  will  still 
reflect  on  him  his  father's  offences ;  and  thus  subjected 
to  undeserved  reprobation,  he  will  scarcely  find  employ- 
ment. And,  instead  of  coming  to  his  aid,  to  save  him 
from  discouragement,  despair,  and,  above  all,  the  dan- 
gerous resentments  of  injustice,  which  sometimes  drive 
the  most  generous  disposition  to  revolt  to  ill,  society 
will  say : 

"  Let  him  go  wrong  if  he  will,  —  we  shall  watch  him. 
Have  we  not  gaolers,  turnkeys,  and  executioners  ?  " 
Thus  for  him  who  (and  it  is  as  rare  as  it  is  meritori- 
49 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


ous)  preserves  himself  pure  in  spite  of  the  worst  ex- 
amples, is  there  any  support,  any  encouragement  ?  Thus 
for  him  who,  plunged  from  his  birth  in  a  focus  of 
domestic  depravity,  is  vitiated  quite  young,  what  hope 
is  there  of  cure  ? 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  cure  him,  the  orphan  I  have  made," 
replies  society ;  "  but  in  my  own  way,  —  by  and  by. 
To  extirpate  the  smallpox,  to  cut  out  the  imposthume, 
it  must  come  to  a  head." 

A  criminal  desires  to  speak. 

"  Prisons  and  galleys,  they  are  my  hospitals.  In 
incurable  cases  there  is  the  executioner.  As  to  the  cure 
of  my  orphan,"  adds  society,  "  I  will  reflect  upon  it. 
Let  the  germ  of  hereditary  corruption  ripen ;  let  it 
increase  ;  let  it  extend  its  ravages  far  and  wide.  When 
our  man  shall  be  rotten  to  the  heart,  when  crime  oozes 
out  of  him  at  every  pore,  when  a  robbery  or  desperate 
murder  shall  have  placed  him  at  the  same  bar  of  infamy 
at  which  his  father  stood,  then  we  will  cure  this  inheritor 
of  crime,  —  as  we  cured  his  progenitor.  At  the  galleys 
or  on  the  scaffold  the  son  will  find  his  father's  seat  still 
warm." 

Society  thus  reasons ;  and  it  is  astonished,  and  indig- 
nant, and  frightened,  to  see  how  robberies  and  murders 
are  handed  down  so  fatally  from  generation  to  generation. 

The  dark  picture  which  is  now  to  follow  —  The 
Freshwater  Pirates  —  is  intended  to  display  what  the 
inheritance  of  evil  in  a  family  may  be  when  society  does 
not  come  legally  or  officially  to  preserve  the  unfortunate 
victims  of  the  law  from  the  terrible  consequences  of  the 
sentence  executed  against  the  father.1 

1  In  proportion  as  we  advance  in  this  work,  its  moral  aim  is  attacked  with 
so  much  bitterness,  and,  as  we  think,  with  so. much  injustice,  that  we  ask 
permission  to  dwell  a  little  on  the  serious  and  honourable  idea  which  hitherto 
has  sustained  and  guided  us.  Many  serious,  delicate,  and  lofty  minds,  being 
desirous  of  encouraging  us  in  our  endeavours,  and  having  forwarded  to  us 
the  flattering  testimonials  of  their  approval,  it  is  due,  perhaps,  to  these 
known  and  unknown  friends  to  reply  over  again  to  the  blind  accusations 
which  have  reached,  we  may  say,  even  to  the  bosom  of  the  legislative 
assembly.    To  proclaim  the  odious  immorality  of  our  work  is  to  proclaim 

50 


L'lLE  DU  RAVAGEUR. 


The  ancestor  of  the  Martial  family  who  first  estab- 
lished himself  on  this  islet,  on  payment  of  a  moderate 
rent,  was  a  ravageur  (a  river-scavenger).  The  ravageurs, 
as  well  as  the  debardeurs  and  dechireurs  of  boats,  remain 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  day  plunged  in  water  up  to  the 
waist  in  the  exercise  of  their  trade.  The  dSbardeurs 
bring  ashore  the  floating  wood.  The  dechireurs  break 
up  the  rafts  which  have  brought  the  wood.  Equally 
aquatic  as  these  other  two  occupations,  the  business  of 
a  ravageur  is  different.  Going  into  the  water  as  far 
as  possible,  the  ravageur,  or  mud-lark,  draws  up,  by  aid 
of  a  long  drag,  the  river  sand  from  beneath  the  mud;  then, 
collecting  it  in  large  wooden  bowls,  he  washes  it  like  a 
person  washing  for  gold  dust,  and  extracts  from  it  metallic 
particles  of  all  kinds,  —  iron,  copper,  lead,  tin,  pewter, 
brass, — the  results  of  the  relics  of  all  sorts  of  utensils. 
The  ravageurs,  indeed,  often  find  in  the  sand  fragments 
of  gold  and  silver  jewelry,  brought  into  the  Seine 


decidedly,  it  appears  to  us,  the  odiously  immoral  tendencies  of  the  persons 
who  honour  us  with  the  deepest  sympathies.  It  is  in  the  name  of  these 
sympathies,  as  well  as  in  our  own,  that  we  shall  endeavour  to  prove,  by  an 
example  selected  from  amongst  others,  that  this  work  is  not  altogether 
destitute  of  generous  and  practical  ideas.  We  gave,  some  time  back,  the 
sketch  of  a  model  farm  founded  by  Rodolph,  in  order  to  encourage,  teach, 
and  remunerate  poor,  honest,  and  industrious  labourers.  We  add  to  this : 
Honest  men  who  are  unfortunate  deserve,  at  least,  as  much  interest  as 
criminals ;  yet  there  are  numerous  associations  intended  for  the  patronage 
of  young  prisoners,  or  those  discharged,  but  there  is  no  society  founded  for 
the*  purpose  of  giving  succour  to  poor  young  persons  whose  conduct  has  been 
invariably  exemplary.  So  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  have  committed 
an  offence  to  become  qualified  for  these  institutions,  which  are,  unquestion- 
ably, most  meritorious  and  salutary.  And  we  make  a  peasant  of  the  Bou- 
queval  farm  to  say : 

"  It  is  humane  and  charitable  not  to  make  the  wicked  desperate,  but  it  is 
also  requisite  that  the  good  should  not  be  without  hope.  If  a  stout,  sturdy, 
honest  fellow,  desirous  of  doing  well,  and  of  learning  all  he  can,  were  to 
present  himself  at  the  farm  for  young  ex-thieves,  they  would  say  to  him, 
'  My  lad,  haven't  you  stolen  some  trifle,  or  been  somewhat  dissolute  ? '  '  No ! ' 
'  Well,  then,  this  is  no  place  for  you.' " 

This  discordance  of  things  had  struck  minds  much  superior  to  our  own, 
and,  thanks  to  them,  what  we  considered  as  an  utopianism  was  realised. 
Under  the  superintendence  of  one  of  the  most  distinguished  and  most 
honourable  men  of  the  age,  M.  le  Comte  Portalis,  and  under  the  able  direc- 
tion of  a  real  philanthropist  with  a  generous  heart  and  an  enlightened  and 
practical  mind,  M.  Allier,  a  society  has  been  established  for  the  purpose  of 
succouring  poor  and  honest  persons  of  the  Department  of  the  Seine,  and  of 
employing  them  in  agricultural  colonies.  This  single  and  sole  result  is 
sufficient  to  affirm  the  moral  idea  of  our  work.  We  are  very  proud  and  very 
happy  to  have  been  met  in  the  midst  of  our  ideas,  our  wishes,  and  our  hopes 
by  the  founders  of  this  new  work  of  charity;  for  we  are  one  of  the  most 
obscure,  but  most  convinced,  propagators  of  these  two  great  truths,— that  it 

51 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


either  by  the  sewers  which  are  washed  by  the  stream, 
or  by  the  masses  of  snow  or  ice  collected  in  the  streets, 
and  which  are  cast  into  the  river.  We  do  not  know  by 
what  tradition  or  custom  these  persons,  usually  honest 
and  industrious,  are  called  by  a  name  so  formidable. 
Martial,  the  father,  the  first  inhabitant  of  this  islet, 
being  a  ravageur  (and  a  sad  exception  to  his  comrades), 
the  inhabitants  of  the  river's  banks  called  it  the  He  du 
Ravageur. 

The  dwelling  of  these  freshwater  pirates  was  placed 
at  the  southern  end  of  the  island.  In  daytime  there 
was  visible,  on  a  sign-board  over  the  door : 

"AU  RENDEZVOUS  DES  RAVAGEURS. 
GOOD  WINE,  GOOD  EELS,  AND  FRIED  FISH. 
BOATS  LET  BY  THE  DAY  OR  HOUR." 

We  thus  see  that  the  head  of  this  depraved  family 
added  to  his  visible  or  hidden  pursuits  those  of  a  public- 
is  the  duty  of  society  to  prevent  evil,  and  to  encourage  and  recompense  good, 
as  much  as  in  it  lies. 

Whilst  we  are  speaking  of  this  new  work  of  charity,  whose  just  and  moral 
idea  ought  to  have  a  salutary  and  fruitful  result,  let  us  hope  that  its  founders 
will  perchance  think  of  supplying  another  vacancy,  by  extending  hereafter 
their  tutelary  patronage,  or,  at  least,  their  solicitude,  over  young  children 
whose  fathers  have  been  executed,  or  condemned  to  an  infamous  sentence 
involving  civil  death,  and  who,  we  will  repeat,  are  made  orphans  by  the  act 
and  operation  of  the  law.  Such  of  these  unfortunate  children  as  shall  be 
already  worthy  of  interest  from  their  wholesome  tendencies  and  their  misery 
will  still  more  deserve  particular  notice,  in  consequence  of  their  painful, 
difficult,  and  dangerous  position.  Let  us  add :  The  family  of  a  condemned 
criminal,  almost  always  victims  of  cruel  repulses,  apply  in  vain  for  labour, 
and  are  compelled,  in  order  to  escape  universal  reprobation,  to  fly  from  the 
spot  where  they  have  hitherto  found  work.  Then,  exasperated  and  enraged 
by  injustice,  already  branded  as  criminals,  for  faults  of  which  they  are 
innocent,  frequently  at  the  end  of  all  honourable  resource,  these  unfortu- 
nates would  sink  and  die  of  famine  if  they  remained  honest.  If  they  have, 
on  the  other  hand,  already  undergone  an  almost  inevitable  corruption,  ought 
we  not  to  try  and  rescue  them  whilst  there  is  yet  time  ?  The  presence  of 
these  orphans  of  the  law  in  the  midst  of  other  children  protected  by  the 
society  of  whom  we  have  spoken,  would  be,  moreover,  a  useful  example  to 
all.  It  would  show  that  if  the  guilty  is  unfailingly  punished,  his  family 
lose  nothing,  but  rather  gain  in  the  esteem  of  the  world,  if  by  dint  of  courage 
and  virtues  they  achieve  the  reestablishing  of  a  tarnished  name.  Shall  we 
say  that  the  legislature  desires  to  render  the  chastisement  still  more  terrible 
by  virtually  striking  the  criminal  father  in  the  fortune  of  his  innocent  son  ? 
That  would  be  barbarous,  immoral,  irrational.  Is  it  not,  on  the  contrary,  of 
the  highest  moral  consequence  to  prove  to  the  people  that  there  is  no 
hereditary  succession  of  evil ;  that  the  original  stain  is  not  ineffaceable  ? 

Let  us  venture  to  hope  that  these  reflections  will  appear  deserving  of 
some  attention  from  the  new  Society  of  Patronage.  Unquestionably  it  is 
painful  to  think  that  the  state  never  takes  the  initiative  in  these  questions 
so  vital  and  so  deeply  interesting  to  social  organisation. 

52 


L'lLE  DU  RAVAGEUR. 


house  keeper,  fisherman,  and  letter  of  boats.  The  fel- 
on's widow  continued  to  keep  the  house,  and  reprobates, 
vagrants,  escaped  convicts,  wandering  wild-beast  show- 
men, and  scamps  of  every  description  came  there  to 
pass  Sundays  and  other  days  not  marked  with  a  red 
letter  in  the  calendar,  in  parties  of  pleasure.  Martial 
(La  Louve's  lover),  the  eldest  son  of  the  family,  the 
least  guilty  of  all  the  family,  was  a  river  poacher,  and 
now  and  then,  as  a  real  champion,  and  for  money  paid, 
took  the  part  of  the  weak  against  the  strong.  One  of 
his  brothers,  Nicholas,  the  intended  accomplice  of  Bar- 
billon  in  the  murder  of  the  jewel-matcher,  was  in  appear- 
ance a  ravageur,  but  really  a  freshwater  pirate  in  the 
Seine  and  its  banks.  Francois,  the  youngest  son  of 
the  executed  felon,  rowed  visitors  who  wished  to  go 
on  the  river  in  a  boat.  We  have  alluded  to  Ambroise 
Martial,  condemned  to  the  galleys  for  burglary  at  night 
with  attempt  to  murder.  The  eldest  daughter,  nick- 
named Calabash  (Calebasse),  helped  her  mother  in  the 
kitchen,  and  waited  on  the  company.  Her  sister, 
Amandine,  nine  years  of  age,  was  also  employed  in  the 
house  according  to  her  years  and  strength. 

At  the  period  in  question  it  was  a  dull  night  out  of 
doors ;  heavy,  gray,  opaque  clouds,  driven  by  the  wind, 
showed  here  and  there  in  the  midst  of  their  openings  a 
few  patches  of  dark  blue  spotted  with  stars.  The  out- 
line of  the  islet,  bordered  by  high  and  ragged  poplars, 
was  strongly  and  darkly  defined  in  the  clear  haze  of  the 
sky  and  in  the  white  transparency  of  the  river.  The 
house,  with  its  irregular  gables,  was  completely  buried 
in  the  shade ;  two  windows  in  the  ground  floor  only 
were  lighted,  and  these  windows  showed  a  deep  red 
light,  which  was  reflected  like  long  trails  of  fire  in  the 
little  ripples  which  washed  the  landing-place  close  to 
the  house.  The  chains  of  the  boats  which  were  moored 
there  made  a  continual  clashing,  that  mingled  unpleas- 
antly with  the  gusts  of  the  wind  in  the  branches 
53 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


of  the  poplars,  and  the  hoarse  murmurs  of  the  main 
stream. 

A  portion  of  the  family  was  assembled  in  the  kitchen 
of  the  house.  This  was  a  large  low-roofed  apartment. 
Facing  the  door  were  two  windows,  under  which  a  long 
stove  extended.  To  the  left  hand  there  was  a  high 
chimney ;  on  the  right  a  staircase  leading  to  the  upper 
story.  At  the  side  of  this  staircase  was  the  entrance  to 
a  large  room,  containing  several  tables  for  the  use  of  the 
guests  at  the  cabaret.  The  light  of  a  lamp,  joined  to 
the  flame  of  the  fire,  was  strongly  reflected  by  a  number 
of  saucepans  and  other  copper  utensils  suspended  against 
the  wall,  or  ranged  on  shelves  with  a  quantity  of  earthen- 
ware ;  and  a  large  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen. 
The  felon's  widow,  with  three  of  her  children,  was  seated 
in  the  corner  near  the  fireplace. 

This  woman,  tall  and  meagre,  seemed  about  five  and 
forty  years  of  age.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  with  a 
mourning  handkerchief  tied  about  her  head,  concealing 
her  hair,  and  surrounding  her  flat,  livid,  and  wrinkled 
brows  ;  her  nose  was  long  and  straight ;  her  cheek-bones 
prominent ;  her  cheeks  furrowed  ;  her  complexion  bilious 
and  sallow ;  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  always  curved 
downwards,  rendered  still  harsher  the  expression  of  her 
countenance,  as  chilling,  sinister,  and  immovable  as  a 
marble  mask.  Her  gray  eyebrows  surmounted  her  dull 
blue  eyes. 

The  felon's  widow  was  employed  with  needlework,  as 
well  as  her  two  daughters.  The  eldest  girl  was  tall  and 
forbidding  like  her  mother,  with  her  features,  calm,  harsh, 
and  repulsive,  her  thin  nose,  her  ill-formed  mouth,  and 
her  pale  look.  Her  yellow  complexion,  which  resembled 
a  ripe  quince,  had  procured  for  her  the  name  of  Calabash 
(Calebasse).  She  was  not  in  mourning,  but  wore  a 
brown  gown,  whilst  a  cap  of  black  tulle  did  not  conceal 
two  bands  of  scanty  hair  of  dull  and  dingy  light  brown. 

Francois,  the  youngest  of  the  Martial  sons,  was  sitting 
54 


L'lLE  DU  RAVAGEUR. 


on  a  low  stool  repairing  an  aldrel,  a  thin-meshed  net 
forbidden  to  be  used  on  the  Seine.  In  spite  of  the  tan 
of  his  features,  this  boy  seemed  in  perfect  health;  a 
forest  of  red  hair  covered  his  head ;  his  face  was  round, 
his  lips  thick,  his  forehead  projecting,  his  eyes  quick  and 
piercing.  He  was  not  like  his  mother  or  his  elder  sister, 
out  had  a  subdued  and  sly  look,  as  from  time  to  time, 
through  the  thick  mass  of  hair  that  fell  over  his  eyes,  he 
threw  a  stealthy  and  fearful  glance  at  his  mother,  or 
exchanged  a  look  of  intelligence  and  affection  with  his 
little  sister,  Amandine. 

The  latter  was  seated  beside  her  brother,  and  was 
occupied,  not  in  marking,  but  in  unmarking,  some  linen 
stolen  on  the  previous  evening.  She  was  nine  years  old, 
and  was  as  like  her  brother  as  her  sister  was  like  her 
mother.  Her  features,  without  being  more  regular,  were 
less  coarse  than  those  of  Frangois.  Although  covered 
with  freckles,  her  complexion  was  remarkably  clear,  her 
lips  thick  and  red,  her  hair  also  red,  but  silky,  and  her 
eyes,  though  small,  were  of  a  clear  bright  blue.  When 
Amandine's  look  met  that  of  her  brother,  she  turned  a 
glance  towards  the  door,  and  then  Frangois  replied  by 
sigh  ;  after  which,  calling  his  sister's  attention  by  a  slight 
gesture,  he  counted  with  the  end  of  his  needle  ten  loops 
of  the  net.  This  was  meant  to  imply,  in  the  symbolical 
language  of  children,  that  their  brother  Martial  would 
not  return  until  ten  o'clock  that  evening. 

Seeing  these  two  women  so  silent  and  ill-looking,  and 
the  two  poor  little  mute,  frightened,  uneasy  children,  we 
might  suppose  they  were  two  executioners  and  two  vic- 
tims. Calabash,  perceiving  that  Amandine  had  ceased 
from  her  occupation  for  a  moment,  said,  in  a  harsh 
tone : 

"  Come,  haven't  you  done  taking  the  mark  out  of  that 
shirt?" 

The  little  girl  bowed  her  head  without  making  any 
reply,  and,  by  the  aid  of  her  fingers  and  scissors,  hastily 

55 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


finished  taking  out  the  red  cotton  threads  which  marked 
the  letters  in  the  linen. 

After  a  few  minutes  Amandine,  addressing  the  widow 
timidly,  showed  her  the  shirt,  and  said  : 

"  Mother,  I  have  done  it." 

Without  making  any  reply,  the  widow  threw  her 
another  piece  of  linen.  The  child  did  not  catch  it 
quickly  enough,  and  it  fell  on  the  ground.  Her  tall 
sister  gave  her,  with  her  hand  as  hard  as  wood,  a  sharp 
slap  on  the  arm,  saying : 

"  You  stupid  brat !  " 

Amandine  resumed  her  seat,  and  set  to  work  actively, 
after  having  exchanged  with  her  brother  a  glance  of  her 
eye,  into  which  a  tear  had  started. 

The  same  silence  continued  to  reign  in  the  kitchen. 
Without,  the  wind  still  moaned  and  dashed  about  the 
sign  in  front  of  the  house.  This  dismal  creaking, 
and  the  dull  boiling  of  a  pot  placed  over  the  fire,  were 
the  only  sounds  that  were  heard.  The  two  children 
observed,  with  secret  fright,  that  their  mother  did  not 
speak.  Although  she  was  habitually  taciturn,  this 
complete  silence,  and  a  certain  drawing  in  of  the 
lips,  announced  to  them  that  the  widow  was  in  what 
they  called  her  white  passion,  that  is  to  say,  was  a  prey 
to  concentrated  irritation. 

The  fire  was  going  out  for  want  of  fuel. 

"  fYancois,  a  log,"  said  Calabash. 

The  young  mender  of  forbidden  nets  looked  into  a 
nook  beside  the  chimney,  and  replied : 

"  There  are  no  more  there." 

"  Then  go  to  the  wood-pile,"  said  Calabash. 

Francois  murmured  some  unintelligible  words,  but  did 
not  stir. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  Francois  ? "  inquired  Calabash, 
harshly. 

The  felon's  widow  laid  on  her  knees  a  towel  she  was 
also  unmarking,  and  looked  at  her  son.   He  had  lowered 

56 


L'lLE  DU  RAVAGEUR. 


his  head,  but  he  guessed  he  felt,  if  we  may  use  the 
expression,  the  fierce  look  his  mother  cast  upon  him, 
and,  fearful  of  encountering  her  dreaded  countenance, 
the  boy  remained  without  stirring. 

"  I  say,  are  you  deaf,  Francois  ? "  said  Calabash,  in  an 
irritated  tone.    "  Mother,  you  see ! " 

The  tall  sister  seemed  to  be  happy  in  finding  fault 
with  the  two  children,  and  to  seek  for  them  the  punish- 
ment which  the  widow  pitilessly  inflicted.  Amandine, 
without  being  observed,  gently  touched  her  brother's 
elbow,  to  make  him  quietly  do  what  Calabash  desired. 
Frangois  did  not  stir.  The  elder  sister  still  looked 
at  her  mother  as  demanding  the  punishment  of  the 
offender,  and  the  widow  understood  her.  With  her 
long  lean  finger  she  pointed  to  a  stick  of  stout  and 
pliant  willow  placed  in  a  recess  near  the  chimney. 
Calabash  stooped  forward,  took  up  this  staff  of  chas- 
tisement, and  handed  it  to  her  mother.  Francois  had 
seen  his  mother's  gesture,  and,  rising  suddenly,  sprung 
out  of  the  reach  of  the  threatening  stick. 

"  Do  you  want  mother  to  break  your  back  ? "  ex- 
claimed Calabash. 

The  widow,  still  holding  the  willow  stick  in  her  hand, 
pinching  her  pale  lips  together  more  and  more,  looked  at 
Frangois  with  a  fixed  eye,  but  without  uttering  a  syllable. 
By  the  slight  tremor  of  Amandine's  hands,  with  her  head 
bent  downwards,  and  the  redness  which  suddenly  over- 
spread her  neck,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  child,  al- 
though habituated  to  such  scenes,  was  alarmed  at  the  fate 
that  threatened  her  brother,  who  had  taken  refuge  in  a 
corner  of  the  kitchen,  and  seemed  frightened  and  irritated. 

"  Mind  yourself,  mother's  going  to  begin,  and  then  it 
will  be  too  late  !  "  said  the  tall  sister. 

"  I  don't  care !  "  replied  Francois,  turning  pale.  "  I'd 
rather  be  beaten  as  I  was  the  day  before  yesterday,  than 
—  go  to  the  wood-pile  —  and  at  night  —  again." 

"  And  why  ?  "  asked  Calabash,  impatiently. 

57 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"I  am  —  afraid  of  the  wood-pile  —  I  —  "  answered 
the  boy,  shuddering  as  he  spoke. 

"  Afraid  —  you  stupid !    And  of  what  ? " 

Francois  shook  his  head,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  Will  you  answer  ?    What  are  you  afraid  of  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.    But  I  am  frightened." 

"  Why,  you've  been  there  a  hundred  times,  and  last 
night,  too." 

"  I  won't  go  there  any  more." 

"  Mother's  going  to  begin." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  me,"  exclaimed  the  lad. 
"  But  she  may  beat  me,  kill  me,  and  I'll  not  go  near 
the  wood-pile  —  not  at  night." 

"  Once  more  —  why  not  ? "  inquired  Calabash. 

"  Why,  because  —  " 

"  Because  —  ?  " 

"  Because  there's  some  one  —  " 
"  There's  some  one  —  " 

"  Buried  there  !  "  said  Francois,  with  a  shudder. 

The  felon's  widow,  in  spite  of  her  impassiveness,  could 
not  repress  a  sudden  start ;  her  daughter  did  the  same. 
It  seemed  as  though  the  two  women  were  struck  with  an 
electric  shock. 

"  Some  one  buried  by  the  wood-pile  ?"  said  Calabash, 
shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  I  tell  you  that  just  now,  whilst  I  was  piling  up  some 
wood,  I  saw  in  a  dark  corner  near  the  wood-pile  a  dead 
man's  bone ;  it  was  sticking  a  little  way  out  of  the 
ground  where  it  was  damp,  just  by  the  corner,"  added 
Francois. 

"  Do  you  hear  him,  mother  ?  Why,  the  boy's  a  fool ! " 
said  Calabash,  making  a  signal  to  the  widow.  "  They 
are  mutton-bones  I  put  there  for  washing-lye." 

"  It  was  not  a  mutton-bone,"  replied  the  boy,  with 
alarm,  "  it  was  a  dead  person's  bones,  —  a  dead  man's 
bones.  I  saw  quite  plainly  a  foot  that  stuck  out  of  the 
ground." 

58 


L'lLE  DU  RAVAGEUR. 


"  And,  of  course,  you  told  your  brother,  your  dear 
friend  Martial,  of  your  grand  discovery,  didn't  you?" 
asked  Calabash,  with  brutal  irony. 

Frangois  made  no  reply. 

"  Nasty  little  spy  !  "  said  Calabash,  savagely ;  "  because 
he  is  as  cowardly  as  a  cur,  and  would  as  soon  see  us 
scragged,  as  our  father  was  scragged  before  us." 

"  If  you  call  me  a  spy,  I'll  "tell  my  brother  Martial 
everything  !  "  said  Frangois,  much  enraged.  "  I  haven't 
told  him  yet,  for  I  haven't  seen  him  since ;  but,  when  he 
comes  here  this  evening,  I'll  —  " 

The  child  could  not  finish ;  his  mother  came  up  to 
him,  calm  and  inexorable  as  ever.  Although  she  habitu- 
ally stooped  a  little,  her  figure  was  still  tall  for  a  woman. 
Holding  the  willow  wand  in  one  hand,  with  the  other 
the  widow  took  her  son  by  the  arm,  and,  in  spite  of 
alarm,  resistance,  prayers,  and  tears  of  the  child,  she 
dragged  him  after  her,  and  made  him  ascend  the  stair- 
case at  the  further  end  of  the  kitchen.  After  a  moment's 
interval,  there  was  heard  heavy  trampling,  mingled  with 
cries  and  sobs.  Some  minutes  afterwards  this  noise 
ceased.  A  door  shut  violently;  the  felon's  widow  de- 
scended. Then,  as  impassive  as  ever,  she  put  the  stick 
in  its  usual  place,  seated  herself  close  to  the  fireplace, 
and  resumed  her  occupation,  without  saying  a  word. 


5& 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE  FRESHWATEE  PIRATE. 

After  a  silence  of  several  minutes,  the  criminal's 
widow  said  to  her  daughter: 

"Go  and  get  some  wood ;  we  will  set  the  wood-pile 
to  rights  when  Nicholas  and  Martial  return  home  this 
evening." 

"  Martial !    Do  you  mean  to  tell  him  also  that  —  " 
"  The  wood,  I  say ! "  repeated  the  widow,  abruptly 
interrupting  her  daughter,  who,  accustomed  to  yield  to 
the  imperious  and  iron  rule  of  her  mother,  lighted  a 
lantern,  and  went  out. 

During  the  preceding  scene,  Amandine,  deeply  dis- 
quieted concerning  the  fate  of  Francois,  whom  she 
tenderly  loved,  had  not  ventured  either  to  lift  up  her 
eyes,  or  dry  her  tears,  which  fell,  drop  by  drop,  on 
to  her  lap.  Her  sobs,  which  she  dared  not  give  utter- 
ance to,  almost  suffocated  her,  and  she  strove  even  to 
repress  the  fearful  beatings  of  her  heart.  Blinded  by 
her  fast  gathering  tears,  she  sought  to  conceal  her  emo- 
tian  by  endeavouring  to  pick  the  mark  from  the  chemise 
given  to  her,  but,  from  the  nervous  trembling  of  her 
hand,  she  ran  the  scissors  into  her  finger  sufficiently 
deep  to  cause  considerable  effusion  of  blood ;  but  the 
poor  child  thought  much  less  of  the  pain  she  experi- 
enced than  of  the  certain  punishment  which  awaited 
her  for  staining  the  linen  with  her  blood.  Happily 
for  her,  the  widow  was  too  deeply  absorbed  in  profound 
60  ~l 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


reflection  to  take  any  notice  of  what  had  occurred. 
Calabash  now  returned,  bearing  a  basket  filled  with 
wood.  To  the  inquiring  look  of  her  mother,  she  re- 
turned an  affirmative  nod  of  the  head,  which  was 
intended  to  acquaint  her  with  the  fact  of  the  dead 
man's  foot  being  actually  above  the  ground.  The  widow 
compressed  her  lips,  and  continued  the  work  she  was 
occupied  upon ;  the  only  difference  perceptible  in  her 
being  that  she  plied  her  needle  with  increased  rapidity. 
m  Calabash,  meanwhile,  renewed  the  fire,  superintended 
the  state  of  the  cookery  progressing  in  the  saucepan 
beside  the  hearth,  and  then  resumed  her  seat  near  her 
mother. 

"Nicholas  is  not  here  yet,"  said  she  to  her  parent. 
"  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  old  woman  who  this  morning 
engaged  him  to  meet  a  gentleman  from  Bradamanti  has 
not  led  him  into  any  scrape.  She  had  such  a  very  off- 
hand way  with  her ;  she  would  neither  give  any  explana- 
tion as  to  the  nature  of  the  business  Nicholas  was  wanted 
for,  nor  tell  her  name,  or  where  she  came  from." 

The  widow  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  You  do  not  consider  Nicholas  is  in  any  danger,  I 
see,  mother.  And,  after  all,  I  dare  say  you  are  quite 
right !  The  old  woman  desired  him  to  be  on  the  Quai 
de  Billy,  opposite  the  landing-place,  about  seven  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  and  wait  there  for  a  person  who  wished 
to  speak  with  him,  and  who  would  utter  the  word 
'  Bradamanti '  as  a  sort  of  countersign.  Certainly 
there  is  nothing  very  perilous  in  doing  so  much.  No 
doubt  Nicholas  is  late  from  having  to-day  found,  as  he 
did  yesterday,  something  on  the  road.  Look  at  this 
capital  linen  which  he  contrived  to  filch  from  a  boat, 
in  which  a  laundress  had  just  left  it !  "  So  saying,  she 
pointed  to  one  of  the  pieces  of  linen  Amandine  was 
endeavouring  to  pick  the  mark  out  of.  Then,  address- 
ing the  child,  she  said,  "What  do  folks  mean  when 
they  talk  of  filching?" 

61 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  believe,"  answered  the  frightened  child,  without 
venturing  to  look  up,  "  it  means  taking  things  that  are 
not  ours." 

"  Oh,  you  little  fool !    It  means  stealing,  not  taking. 
Do  you  understand  ?  —  stealing !  " 
"  Thank  you,  sister  !  " 

"  And  when  one  can  steal  as  cleverly  as  Nicholas, 
there  is  no  need  to  want  for  anything.  Look  at  that 
linen  he  filched  yesterday ;  how  comfortably  it  set  us 
all  up ;  and  that,  too,  with  no  other  trouble  than  just 
taking  out  the  marks;  isn't  it  true,  mother?"  added 
Calabash,  with  a  burst  of  laughter,  which  displayed  her 
decayed  and  irregular  teeth,  yellow  and  jaundiced  as 
her  complexion. 

The  widow  received  this  pleasantry  with  cold  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  Talking  of  fitting  ourselves  up  without  any  expense," 
continued  Calabash,  "  it  strikes  me  we  might  possibly  do 
so  at  another  shop.  You  know  quite  well  that  an  old 
man  has  come,  within  the  last  few  days,  to  live  in  the 
country-house  belonging  to  M.  Griffon,  the  doctor  of 
the  hospital  at  Paris.  I  mean  that  lone  house  about 
a  hundred  steps  from  the  river's  side,  just  opposite  the 
lime-kilns,  —  eh,  mother  ?  You  understand  me,  don't 
you?" 

The  widow  bowed  her  head,  in  token  of  assent. 

"  Well,  Nicholas  was  saying  yesterday  that  it  was 
very  likely  a  good  job  might  be  made  out  of  it,"  pursued 
Calabash.  "  Now  I  have  ascertained,  this  very  morning, 
that  there  is  good  booty  to  be  found  there.  The  best 
way  will  be  to  send  Amandine  to  watch  the  place  a 
little ;  no  one  will  take  notice  of  a  child  like  her ;  and 
she  could  pretend  to  be  just  playing  about,  and  amusing 
herself ;  all  the  time  she  can  take  notice  of  everything, 
and  will  be  able  to  tell  us  all  she  sees  or  hears.  Do 
you  hear  what  I  say  ? "  added  Calabash,  roughly  address- 
ing Amandine. 

62 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


"  Yes,  sister,"  answered  the  trembling  child ;  "  I  will 
be  sure  to  do  as  you  wish  me." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  you  always  say ;  but  you  never  do 
more  than  promise,  you  little  slink !  That  time  that  I 
desired  you  to  take  a  five-franc  piece  out  of  the  grocer's 
till  at  Asnieres,  while  I  managed  to  keep  the  man  occu- 
pied at  the  other  end  of  the  shop,  you  did  not  choose  to 
obey  me ;  and  yet  you  might  have  done  it  so  easily ;  no 
one  ever  mistrusts  a  child.  Pray  what  was  your  reason 
for  not  doing  as  you  were  bid  ?  " 

"Because,  sister,  my  heart  failed  me,  and  I  was 
afraid." 

"  And  yet,  the  other  day,  you  took  a  handkerchief  out 
of  the  peddler's  pack,  when  the  man  was  selling  his 
goods  inside  the  public-house.  Pray  did  he  find  it  out, 
you  silly  thing  ? " 

"  Oh,  but,  sister,  you  know  the  handkerchief  was  for 
you,  not  me ;  and  you  made  me  do  it.  Besides,  it  was 
not  money." 

"  What  difference  does  that  make  ? " 

"Oh,  why,  taking  a  handkerchief  is  not  half  so  wicked 
as  stealing  money  !  " 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Calabash,  contemptuously, 
"  these  are  mighty  fine  notions !  I  suppose  it  is  Mar- 
tial stuffs  your  head  with  all  this  rubbish.  I  suppose 
you  will  run  open-mouthed  to  tell  him  every  word  we 
have  said,  —  eh,  little  spy  ?  But  Lord  bless  you  !  We 
are  not  afraid  of  you  or  Martial  either  ;  you  can  neither 
eat  us  nor  drink  us,  that  is  one  good  thing."  Then, 
addressing  herself  to  the  widow,  Calabash  continued, 
"  I  tell  you  what,  mother,  that  fellow  will  get  himself 
into  no  good  by  trying  to  rule,  and  domineer,  and  lay 
down  the  law  here,  as  he  does ;  both  Nicholas  and 
myself  are  determined  not  to  submit  to  it.  He  sets 
both  Amandine  and  Francois  against  everything  either 
you  or  I  order  them  to  do.  Do  you  think  this  can  last 
much  longer  ? " 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  No !  "  said  the  mother,  in  a  harsh,  abrupt  voice. 

"  Ever  since  his  Louve  has  been  sent  to  St.  Lazare, 
Martial  has  gone  on  like  a  madman,  savage  as  a  bear 
with  every  one.  Pray  is  it  our  fault  ?  Can  we  help  his 
sweetheart  being  put  in  prison  ?  Only  let  her  show  her 
face  here  when  she  comes  out,  and  I'll  serve  her  in  such 
a  way  she  sha'n't  forget  one  while !  I'll  match  her ! 
I'll—" 

Here  the  widow,  who  had  been  buried  in  profound 
reflection,  suddenly  interrupted  her  daughter  by  saying : 

"  You  think  something  profitable  might  be  got  out  of 
the  old  fellow  who  lives  in  the  doctor's  house,  do  you 
not?" 

«  Yes,  mother  !  " 

"  He  looks  poor  and  shabby  as  any  common  beggar ! " 
"  And,  for  all  that,  he  is  a  nobleman." 
"  A  nobleman  ?  " 

"  True  as  you're  alive  !  And,  what's  more,  he  carries 
a  purse  full  of  gold,  spite  of  his  always  going  into  Paris, 
and  returning,  on  foot,  leaning  on  an  old  stick,  just  for 
all  the  world  like  a  poor  wretch  that  had  not  a  sou  in 
the  world." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  he  has  gold  ?  " 

"  A  little  while  ago  I  was  at  the  post-office  at 
Asnieres,  to  inquire  whether  there  was  any  letter  for 
us  from  Toulon  —  " 

At  these  words,  which  recalled  the  circumstance  of 
her  son's  confinement  in  the  galleys,  the  brows  of  the 
widow  were  contracted  with  a  dark  frown,  while  a  half 
repressed  sigh  escaped  her  lips.  Unheeding  these  signs 
of  perturbation,  Calabash  proceeded  : 

"  I  was  waiting  my  turn,  when  the  old  man  who  lives 
at  the  doctor's  house  entered  the  office.  I  knew  him 
again  directly,  by  his  white  hair  and  beard,  his  dark  com- 
plexion, and  thick  black  eyebrows.  He  does  not  look 
like  one  that  would  be  easily  managed,  I  can  tell  you ; 
and,  spite  of  his  age,  he  has  the  appearance  of  a  deter- 
64 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


mined  old  fool  that  would  die  sooner  than  yield.  He 
walked  straight  up  to  the  postmistress.  '  Pray,'  said  he, 
'  have  you  any  letters  from  Angers  for  M.  le  Comte  de 
Remy  ? '  '  Yes,'  replied  the  woman,  '  here  is  one.' 
4  Then  it  is  for  me,'  said  the  old  man ;  '  here  is  my  pass- 
port.' While  the  postmistress  was  examining  it,  he 
drew  out  a  green  silk  purse,  to  pay  the  postage ;  and, 
I  promise  you,  one  end  was  stuffed  with  gold  till  it 
looked  as  large  as  an  egg.  I  know  it  was  gold,  for  I 
saw  the  bright,  yellow  pieces  shining  through  the 
meshes  of  the  purse ;  and  I  am  quite  certain  there 
must  have  been  at  least  forty  or  fifty  louis  in  it ! " 
cried  Calabash,  her  eyes  glowing  with  a  covetous  eager- 
ness to  possess  herself  of  such  a  treasure.  "  And  only 
to  think,"  continued  she,  "  of  a  person,  with  all  that 
money  in  his  pocket,  going  about  like  an  old  beggar  ! 
No  doubt  he  is  some  old  miser,  too  rich  to  be  able  to 
count  his  hoards.  One  good  thing,  mother,  we  know 
his  name  ;  that  may  assist  us  in  gaining  admittance  into 
the  house.  As  soon  as  Amandine  can  find  out  for  us 
whether  he  has  any  servants  or  not  —  " 

A  loud  barking  of  dogs  here  interrupted  Calabash. 

"  Listen,  mother,"  cried  she ;  "  no  doubt  the  dogs 
hear  the  sound  of  a  boat  approaching ;  it  must  be 
either  Martial  or  Nicholas." 

At  the  mention  of  Martial's  name,  the  features  of 
Amandine  expressed  a  sort  of  troubled  joy.  After 
waiting  for  some  minutes,  during  which  the  anxious 
looks  of  the  impatient  child  were  fixed  on  the  door, 
she  saw,  to  her  extreme  regret,  Nicholas,  the  future 
accomplice  of  Barbillon,  make  his  appearance.  The 
physiognomy  of  the  youth  was  at  once  ignoble  and 
ferocious ;  small  in  figure,  short  in  stature,  and  mean 
in  appearance,  no  one  would  have  deemed  him  a  likely 
person  to  pursue  the  dangerous  and  criminal  path  he 
trod.  Unhappily,  a  sort  of  wild,  savage  energy  supplied 
the  place  of  that  physical  force  in  which  the  hardened 
65 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


youth  was  deficient.  Over  his  blue  loose  frock  he  wore 
a  kind  of  vest,  without  sleeves,  made  of  goatskin, 
covered  with  long  brown  hair.  As  he  entered,  he  threw 
on  the  ground  a  lump  of  copper,  which  he  had  with 
difficulty  carried  on  his  shoulder. 

"  A  famous  good  night  I  have  made  of  it,  mother ! " 
said  he,  in  a  hoarse  and  hollow  voice,  after  he  had  freed 
himself  from  his  burden.  "  Look  there !  There's  a 
prize.  Well,  I've  got  three  more  lumps  of  copper, 
quite  as  big  as  that,  in  my  boat,  a  bundle  of  clothes, 
and  a  case  filled  with  something,  I  know  not  what, 
for  I  did  not  waste  my  time  in  opening  it.  Per- 
haps I  have  been  robbed  on  my  way  home ;  we  shall 
see." 

"  And  the  man  you  were  to  meet  on  the  Quai  de 
Billy  ? "  inquired  Calabash,  while  the  widow  regarded 
her  son  in  silence. 

The  only  reply  made  by  the  young  man  consisted  in 
his  plunging  his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  his  trousers, 
and  jingling  a  quantity  of  silver. 

"  Did  you  take  all  that  from  him  ? "  cried  Calabash. 

"  No,  I  didn't ;  he  shelled  out  two  hundred  francs  of 
his  own  accord ;  and  he  will  fork  out  eight  hundred 
more  as  soon  as  I  have  —  But  that's  enough ;  let's, 
first  of  all,  unload  my  boat ;  we  can  jabber  afterwards. 
Is  not  Martial  here  ? " 

"  No,"  said  his  sister. 

"  So  much  the  better ;  we  will  put  away  the  swag 
before  he  sees  it ;  leastways,  if  he  can  be  kept  from 
knowing  about  it." 

"  What !  Are  you  afraid  of  him,  you  coward  ? " 
asked  Calabash,  provokingly. 

Nicholas  shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly  ;  then 
replied : 

"  Afraid  of  him  ?  No,  I  should  rather  think  not ! 
But  I  have  a  strong  suspicion  he  means  to  sell  us, — 
that  is  my  only  fear ;  as  for  any  other  sort  of  dread, 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


my  weazen-slicer  (knife)  has  rather  too  keen  an  edge 
for  that ! " 

"  Ah,  when  he  is  not  here,  you  are  full  of  boast  and 
brag ;  but  only  let  him  show  his  face,  and  you  are  quiet 
as  a  mouse  !  " 

This  reproach  seemed  quite  thrown  away  upon 
Nicholas,  who,  affecting  not  to  have  heard  it, 
exclaimed : 

"  Come,  come !  Let's  unload  the  boat  at  once. 
Where  is  Franc,ois,  mother  ?  He  could  help  us  a 
good  deal." 

"  Mother  has  locked  him  up,  after  having  preciously 
flogged  him ;  and,  I  can  tell  you,  he  will  have  to  go  to 
bed  without  any  supper." 

"Well  and  good  as  far  as  that  goes;  but  still,  he 
might  lend  a  hand  in  unloading  the  boat,  —  eh,  mother  ? 
Because,  then  myself  and  Calabash  could  fetch  all  in  at 
once." 

The  widow  raised  her  hand,  and  pointed  with  her 
finger  towards  the  ceiling.  Her  daughter  perfectly 
comprehended  the  signal,  and  departed  at  once  to 
fetch  Francois. 

The  countenance  of  the  widow  Martial  had  become 
less  cloudy  since  the  arrival  of  Nicholas,  whom  she 
greatly  preferred  to  Calabash,  but  by  no  means  enter- 
taining for  him  the  affection  she  felt  for  her  Toulon  son, 
as  she  designated  him ;  for  the  maternal  love  of  this 
ferocious  woman  appeared  to  increase  in  proportion  to 
the  criminality  of  her  offspring.  This  perverse  prefer- 
ence will  serve  to  account  for  the  widow's  indifference 
towards  her  two  younger  children,  neither  of  whom 
exhibited  any  disposition  to  evil,  as  well  as  her  perfect 
hatred  of  Martial,  her  eldest  son,  who,  although  not 
leading  an  altogether  irreproachable  life,  might  still 
have  passed  for  a  perfectly  honest  and  well-conducted 
person  if  placed  in  comparison  with  Nicholas,  Calabash, 
or  his  brother,  the  felon  at  Toulon. 

67 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Which  road  did  you  take  to-night  ? "  inquired  the 
widow  of  her  son. 

"  Why,  as  I  returned  from  the  Quai  de  Billy,  where, 
you  know,  I  had  to  go  to  meet  the  gentleman  who 
appointed  to  see  me  there,  I  spied  a  barge  moored  along- 
side the  quay ;  it  was  as  dark  as  pitch.  '  Halloa ! '  says 
I,  '  no  light  in  the  cabin  ?  No  doubt,'  says  I, '  all  hands 
are  ashore.  I'll  just  go  on  board,  and  have- a  look;  if  I 
meet  any  one,  it's  easy  to  ask  for  a  bit  of  string,  and 
make  up  a  fudge  about  wanting  to  splice  my  oar.'  So 
up  the  side  I  climbs,  and  ventures  into  the  cabin.  Not 
a  soul  was  there ;  so  I  began  collecting  all  I  could  find : 
clothes,  a  great  box,  and,  on  the  deck,  four  quintals  of 
copper.  So,  you  may  guess,  I  was  obliged  to  make  two 
journeys.  The  vessel  was  loaded  with  copper  and  iron ; 
but  here  comes  Francois  and  Calabash.  Now,  then,  let's 
be  off  to  the  boat.  Here,  you  young  un,  you  Amandine  ! 
Look  sharp,  and  make  yourself  useful ;  you  can  carry 
the  clothes ;  we  must  get  new  things,  you  know,  before 
we  can  throw  aside  our  old  ones." 

Left  alone,  the  widow  busied  herself  in  preparations 
for  the  family  supper.  She  placed  on  the  table  bottles, 
glasses,  earthenware,  plates,  with  forks  and  spoons  of 
silver  ;  and,  by  the  time  this  occupation  was  completed, 
her  offspring  returned  heavily  laden. 

Little  Frangois  staggered  beneath  the  weight  of  copper 
which  he  carried  on  his  shoulders,  and  Amandine  was 
almost  buried  beneath  the  mass  of  stolen  garments  which 
she  bore  on  her  head,  while  Nicholas  and  Calabash 
brought  in  between  them  a  wooden  case,  on  the  top 
of  which  lay  the  fourth  lump  of  copper. 

"The  case,  —  the  case!"  cried  Calabash,  with  savage 
eagerness.  "  Come,  let's  rip  it  open,  and  know  what's 
in  it." 

The  lumps  of  copper  were  flung  on  the  ground. 
Nicholas  took  the  heavy  hatchet  he  carried  in  his  belt, 
and  introduced  its  strong  iron  head  between  the  lid  and 

68 


THE  .FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


the  box  which  he  had  set  down  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen,  and  endeavoured  with  all  his  strength  to  force 
it  open.  The  red  and  flickering  light  of  the  fire  illu- 
mined this  scene  of  pillage,  while,  from  without,  the  loud 
gusts  of  the  night  wind  increased  in  violence. 

Nicholas,  meanwhile,  attired  in  his  goatskin  vest, 
stooped  over  the  box,  and  essayed  with  all  his  might 
to  wrench  off  the  top,  breaking  out  into  the  most 
horrible  and  blasphemous  expressions,  as  he  found  the 
solidity  of  the  fastenings  resist  all  his  endeavours  to 
arrive  at  a  knowledge  of  its  contents ;  and  Calabash, 
her  eyes  inflamed  by  covetousness,  her  cheeks  flushed 
by  the  excitement  of  plunder,  knelt  down  beside  the 
case,  on  which  she  leaned  her  utmost  weight,  in  order 
to  give  more  power  to  the  action  of  the  lever  employed 
by  Nicholas.  The  widow,  separated  from  the  group  by 
the  table,  on  the  other  side  of  which  she  was  standing, 
in  her  eagerness  to  behold  the  spoils,  threw  herself 
almost  across  the  table,  the  better  to  gaze  on  the  booty ; 
her  longing  eyes  sparkled  with  eagerness  to  learn  the 
value  of  it.  And  finally  —  though  unhappily,  too  true 
to  human  nature  —  the  two  children,  whose  naturally 
good  inclinations  had  so  often  triumphed  over  the  sea 
of  vice  and  domestic  corruption  by  which  they  were 
surrounded,  even  they,  forgetting  at  once  both  their 
fears  and  their  scruples,  were  alike  infected  by  the 
same  fatal  curiosity. 

Huddling  close  to  each  other,  their  eyes  glittering 
with  excitement,  the  breathing  short  and  quick,  Fran- 
cois and  Amandine  seemed  of  all  the  party  most  impa- 
tient to  ascertain  the  contents  of  the  case,  and  the  most 
irritated  and  out  of  patience  with  the  slow  progress 
made  by  Nicholas  in  his  attempts  to  break  it  open.  At 
length  the  lid  yielded  to  the  powerful  and  repeated 
blows  dealt  on  it  by  the  vigorous  arm  of  the  young 
man,  and  as  its  fragments  fell  on  the  ground  a  loud, 
exulting  cry  rose  from  the  joyful  and  almost  breathless 
69 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


group,  who,  joining  in  one  wild  mass,  from  the  mother 
to  the  little  girl,  rushed  forward,  and  with  savage 
haste  threw  themselves  on  the  opened  box,  which, 
forwarded,  doubtless,  by  some  house  in  Paris  to  a 
fashionable  draper  and  mercer  residing  near  the 
banks  of  the  river,  contained  a  large  assortment  of 
the  different  materials  employed  in  female  attire. 

"  Nicholas  has  not  done  amiss ! "  cried  Calabash, 
unfolding  a  piece  of  mousseline-de-laine. 

"  No,  faith  !  "  returned  the  plunderer,  opening,  in  his 
turn,  a  parcel  of  silk  handkerchiefs ;  "  I  shall  manage 
to  pay  myself  for  my  trouble." 

"  Levantine,  I  declare ! "  cried  the  widow,  dipping 
into  the  box,  and  drawing  forth  a  rich  silk.  "  Ah, 
that  is  a  thing  that  fetches  a  price  as  readily  as  a  loaf 
of  bread." 

"  Oh,  Bras  Rouge's  receiver,  who  lives  in  the  Rue  du 
Temple,  will  buy  all  the  finery,  and  be  glad  of  it.  And 
Father  Micou,  the  man  who  lets  furnished  lodgings  in 
the  Quartier  St.  Honored  will  take  the  rest  of  the  swag." 

"  Amandine,"  whispered  Francois  to  his  little  sister, 
"what  a  beautiful  cravat  one  of  those  handsome  silk 
handkerchiefs  Nicholas  is  holding  in  his  hand  would 
make,  wouldn't  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  and  what  a  sweet  pretty  marmotte  it  would 
make  for  me ! "  replied  the  child,  in  rapture  at  the 
very  idea. 

"  Well,  it  must  be  confessed,  Nicholas,"  said  Calabash, 
"  that  it  was  a  lucky  thought  of  yours  to  go  on  board 
that  barge,  —  famous  !  Look,  here  are  shawls,  too  ! 
How  many,  I  wonder  ?  One,  two,  three.  And  just 
see  here,  mother !    This  one  is  real  Bourre  de  Soie." 

"  Mother  Burette  would  give  at  least  five  hundred 
francs  for  the  lot,"  said  the  widow,  after  closely  exam- 
ining each  article. 

"  Then,  111  be  sworn,"  answered  Nicholas,  "  if  she'll 
give  that,  the  things  are  worth  at  least  fifteen  hundred 
70 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


francs.  But,  as  the  old  saying  is,  '  The  receiver's  as 
bad  as  the  thief.'  Never  mind ;  so  much  the  worse  for 
us !  I'm  no  hand  at  splitting  differences ;  and  I  shall 
be  quite  flat  enough  this  time  to  let  Mother  Burette 
have  it  all  her  own  way,  and  Father  Micou  also,  for 
the  matter  of  that;  but  then,  to  be  sure,  he  is  a  friend." 

"  I  don't  care  for  that,  he'd  cheat  you  as  soon  as 
another ;  I'm  up  to  the  old  dealer  in  marine  stores. 
But  then  these  rascally  receivers  know  we  cannot  do 
without  them,"  continued  Calabash,  putting  on  one  of 
the  shawls,  and  folding  it  around  her,  "  and  so  they 
take  advantage  of  it." 

"  There  is  nothing  else,"  said  Nicholas,  coming  to  the 
bottom  of  the  box. 

"  Now,  let  us  put  everything  away,"  said  the  widow. 

"  I  shall  keep  this  shawl  for  myself,"  exclaimed  Cala- 
bash. 

"  Oh,  you  will,  will  you  ? "  cried  Nicholas,  roughly  ; 
"  that  depends  whether  I  choose  to  let  you  or  not.  You 
are  always  laying  your  clutches  on  something  or  other  ; 
you  are  Madame  Free-and-Easy  !  " 

"  You  are  so  mighty  particular  yourself  —  about  tak- 
ing whatever  you  have  a  fancy  to,  arn't  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that's  as  different  as  different  can  be !  I  filch 
at  the  risk  of  my  life  ;  and  if  I  had  happened  to  have 
been  nabbed  on  board  the  barge,  you  would  not  have 
been  trounced  for  it." 

"  La !  Well,  don't  make  such  a  fuss,  —  take  your  shawl ! 
I'm  sure  I  don't  want  it ;  I  was  only  joking  about  it," 
continued  Calabash,  flinging  the  shawl  back  into  the 
box  ;  "  but  you  never  can  stand  the  least  bit  of  fun." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  speak  because  of  the  shawl ;  I  am  not 
stingy  enough  to  squabble  about  a  trumpery  shawl.  One 
more  or  less  would  make  no  difference  in  the  price 
Mother  Burette  would  give  for  the  things ;  she  buys  in 
the  lump,  you  know,"  continued  Nicholas ;  "  only  I  con- 
sider that,  instead  of  calling  out  you  should  keep  the 
71 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


shawl,  it  would  have  been  more  decent  to  have  asked  me 
to  give  it  you.  There  —  there  it  is  —  keep  it  —  you  may 
have  it ;  keep  it,  I  say,  or  else  I'll  just  fling  it  into  the 
fire  to  make  the  pot  boil." 

These  words  entirely  appeased  Calabash,  who  forth- 
with accepted  the  shawl  without  further  scruple. 

Nicholas  appeared  seized  with  a  sudden  fit  of  gener- 
osity, for,  ripping  off  the  fag  end  from  one  of  the  pieces 
of  silk,  he  contrived  to  separate  two  silk  handkerchiefs, 
which  he  threw  to  Amandine  and  Frangois,  who  had 
been  contemplating  them  with  longing  looks,  saying : 

"  There !  that's  for  you  brats ;  just  a  little  taste  to 
give  you  a  relish  for  prigging ;  it's  a  thing  you'll  take 
to  more  kindly  if  it's  made  agreeable  to  you.  And  now, 
get  off  to  bed.  Come,  look  sharp,  I've  got  a  deal  to  say 
to  mother.  There  —  you  shall  have  some  supper  brought 
up-stairs  to  you." 

The  delighted  children  clapped  their  hands  with  joy, 
and  triumphantly  waved  the  stolen  handkerchiefs  which 
had  just  been  presented  to  them. 

"  What  do  you  say  now,  you  little  stupids  ? "  said 
Calabash  to  them  ;  "  will  you  ever  go  and  be  persuaded 
by  Martial  again  ?  Did  he  aver  give  you  beautiful  silk 
handkerchiefs  like  those,  I  should  be  glad  to  know  ? " 

Frangois  and  Amandine  looked  at  each  other,  then 
hung  down  their  heads,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  Answer,  can't  you  ? "  persisted  Calabash,  roughly. 
"  I  ask  you  whether  you  ever  received  such  presents 
from  Martial?" 

"  No,"  answered  Frangois,  gazing  with  intense  delight 
on  his  bright  red  silk  handkerchief,  "  Brother  Martial 
never  gives  us  anything." 

To  which  Amandine  replied,  in  a  low  yet  firm  voice : 

"  Ah,  Frangois,  that  is  because  Martial  has  nothing  to 
give  anybody." 

"  He  might  have  as  much  as  other  people  if  he  chose  to 
steal  it,  mightn't  he,  Frangois  ?  "  said  Nicholas,  brutally. 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


"  Yes,  brother,"  replied  Francois.  Then,  as  if  glad 
to  quit  the  subject,  he  resumed  his  ecstatic  contemplation 
of  his  handkerchief,  saying : 

"  Oh,  what  a  real  beauty  it  is !  What  a  fine  cravat  it 
will  make  for  Sundays,  won't  it  ? " 

"  That  it  will,"  answered  Amandine.  "  And  just  see, 
Francois,  how  charming  I  shall  look  with  my  sweet 
pretty  handkerchief  tied  around  my  head,  —  so,  brother." 

"  What  a  rage  the  little  children  at  the  lime-kilns  will 
be  in  when  they  see  you  pass  by  ! "  said  Calabash,  fixing 
her  malignant  glances  on  the  poor  children  to  ascertain 
whether  they  comprehended  the  full  and  spiteful  mean- 
ing of  her  words,  —  the  hateful  creature  seeking,  by  the 
aid  of  vanity,  to  stifle  the  last  breathings  of  virtue 
within  their  young  minds.  "  The  brats  at  the  lime- 
kilns," continued  she,  "  will  look  like  beggar  children 
beside  you,  and  be  ready  to  burst  with  envy  and  jealousy 
at  seeing  you  two  looking  like  a  little  lady  and  gentle- 
man with  your  pretty  silk  handkerchiefs." 

"  So  they  will,"  cried  Francois.  "  Ah,  and  I  like  my 
new  cravat  ever  so  much  the  better,  Sister  Calabash, 
now  you  have  told  me  that  the  children  at  the  kilns  will 
be  so  mad  with  me  for  being  smarter  than  they ;  don't 
you,  Amandine  ? " 

"  No,  Francois,  I  don't  find  that  makes  any  difference. 
But  I  am  quite  glad  I  have  got  such  a  nice  new  pretty 
marmotte  as  that  will  make,  all  the  same." 

"  Go  along  with  you,  you  little  mean-spirited  thing !  " 
cried  Calabash,  disdainfully  ;  "  you  have  not  a  grain  of 
proper  pride  in  you."  Then,  snatching  from  the  table  a 
morsel  of  bread  and  cheese,  she  thrust  them  into  the 
children's  hands,  saying,  "  Now,  get  off  to  bed,  —  there 
is  a  lanthorn  ;  take  care  you  don't  set  fire  to  anything, 
and  be  sure  to  put  it  out  before  you  go  to  sleep." 

"And  hark  ye,"  added  Nicholas,  "remember  that  if 
you  dare  to  say  one  word  to  Martial  of  the  box,  the  cop- 
per, or  the  clothes,  I'll  make  you  dance  upon  red-hot 
73 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


iron ;  and,  besides  that,  your  pretty  silk  handkerchiefs 
shall  be  taken  from  you." 

After  the  departure  of  the  children,  Nicholas  and 
his  sister  concealed  the  box,  with  its  contents,  the 
clothes,  and  lumps  of  copper,  in  a  sort  of  cellar  below 
the  kitchen,  the  entrance  to  which  was  by  a  low  flight  of 
steps  not  far  from  the  fireplace. 

"  That'll  do  !  "  cried  the  hardened  youth.  "  And  now, 
mother,  give  us  a  glass  of  your  very  best  brandy ;  none 
of  your  poor,  every-day  stuff,  but  some  of  the  real  right 
sort,  and  plenty  of  it.  Faith !  I  think  I've  earned  a 
right  to  eat  and  to  drink  whatever  you  happen  to  have 
put  by  for  grand  occasions.  Come,  Calabash,  look  sharp, 
and  let's  have  supper.  Never  mind  Martial,  he  may 
amuse  himself  with  picking  the  bones  we  may  leave ; 
they  are  good  enough  for  him.  Now,  then,  for  a  bit  of 
gossip  over  the  affair  of  the  individual  I  went  to  meet 
on  the  Quai  de  Billy,  because  that  little  job  must  be 
settled  at  once  if  I  mean  to  pouch  the  money  he  prom- 
ised me.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  mother,  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  But  first  give  me  something  to  moisten 
my  throat.  Give  me  some  drink,  I  say !  Devilish  hard 
to  be  obliged  to  ask  so  many  times,  considering  what  I 
have  done  for  you  all  to-day !  I  tell  you  I  can  stand 
treat,  if  that's  what  you  are  waiting  for." 

And  here  Nicholas  again  jingled  the  five-franc  pieces 
he  had  in  his  pocket;  then  flinging  his  goatskin  waist- 
coat and  black  woollen  cap  into  a  distant  part  of  the 
room,  he  seated  himself  at  table  before  a  huge  dish  of 
ragout  made  of  mutton,  a  piece  of  cold  veal,  and  a  salad. 
As  soon  as  Calabash  had  brought  wine  and  brandy,  the 
widow,  still  gloomy  and  imperturbable,  took  her  place  at 
one  side  of  the  table,  having  Nicholas  on  her  right  hand 
and  her  daughter  on  her  left ;  the  other  side  of  the  table 
had  been  destined  for  Martial  and  the  two  younger  chil- 
dren. Nicholas  then  drew  from  his  pocket  a  long  and 
wide  Spanish  knife,  with  a  horn  handle  and  a  trenchant 
74 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


blade.  Contemplating  this  murderous  weapon  with  a 
sort  of  savage  pleasure,  he  said  to  the  widow  : 

"  There's  my  bread-earner,  —  what  an  edge  it  has  ! 
Talking  of  bread,  mother,  just  hand  me  some  of  that 
beside  you." 

"  And  talking  of  knives,  too,"  replied  Calabash, 
"  Francois  has  found  out  —  you  know  what  —  in  the 
wood-pile !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Nicholas,  not  under- 
standing her. 

"  Why,  he  saw  —  one  of  the  feet !  " 

«  Phew  !  "  whistled  Nicholas  ;  "  what,  of  the  man  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  widow,  concisely,  at  the  same 
time  placing  a  large  slice  of  meat  on  her  son's  plate. 

"  That's  droll  enough,"  returned  the  young  ruffian ; 
"  I'm  sure  the  hole  was  dug  deep  enough ;  but  I  suppose 
the  ground  has  sunk  in  a  good  deal." 

"  It  must  all  be  thrown  into  the  river  to-night,"  said 
the  widow. 

"  That  is  the  surest  way  to  get  rid  of  further  bother," 
»aid  Nicholas. 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Calabash,  "  throw  it  in  the  river, 
with  a  heavy  stone  fastened  to  it,  with  part  of  an  old 
boat-chain." 

"  We  are  not  quite  such  fools  as  that  either,"  returned 
Nicholas,  pouring  out  for  himself  a  brimming  glass  of 
wine.  Then,  holding  the  bottle  up,  he  said,  addressing 
the  widow :  "  Come,  mother,  let's  touch  glasses,  and 
drink  to  each  other.  You  seem  a  cup  too  low,  and  it 
will  cheer  you  up." 

The  widow  drew  back  her  glass,  shook  her  head,  and 
said  to  her  son  : 

"  Tell  me  of  the  man  you  met  on  the  Quai  de  Billy." 

"  Why,  this  is  it,"  said  Nicholas,  without  ceasing  to 
eat  and  drink :  "  When  I  got  to  the  landing-place,  I  fas- 
tened my  boat,  and  went  up  the  steps  of  the  quay  as  the 
clock  was  striking  seven  at  the  military  bakehouse  at 
75 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Chaillot.  You  could  not  see  four  yards  before  you,  but 
I  walked  up  and  down  by  the  parapet  wall  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  when  I  heard  footsteps  moving  softly  behind 
me.  I  stopped,  and  a  man,  completely  wrapped  up  in  a 
mantle,  approached  me,  coughing  as  he  advanced.  As  I 
paused,  he  paused ;  and  all  I  could  make  out  of  him  was 
that  his  cloak  hid  his  nose,  and  his  hat  fell  over  his 
eyes." 

We  will  inform  our  readers  that  this  mysterious  per- 
sonage was  Jacques  Ferrand,  the  notary,  who,  anxious 
to  get  rid  of  Fleur-de-Marie,  had,  that  same  morning, 
despatched  Madame  Se'raphin  to  the  Martials,  whom 
he  hoped  to  find  the  ready  instruments  of  his  fresh 
crime. 

" '  Bradamanti,'  said  the  man  to  me,"  continued 
Nicholas  ;  "  th:,t  was  the  password  agreed  upon  by  the 
old  woman,  that  I  might  know  my  man.  '  Ravageur,' 
says  I,  as  was  agreed.  '  Is  your  name  Martial  ? '  he 
asked.  '  Yes,  master.'  *  A  woman  was  at  your  isle  to- 
day :  what  did  she  say  to  you  ?  '  4  That  you  wished  to 
speak  to  me  on  the  part  of  M.  Bradamanti.'  4  You  have 
a  boat  ? '  '  We  have  four,  that's  our  number :  boatmen 
and  ravageurs,  from  father  to  son,  at  your  service.' 
4  This  is  what  I  want  you  to  do  if  you  are  not 
afraid  — '  '  Afraid  of  what,  master  ? '  'Of  seeing  a 
person  accidentally  drowned.  Only  you  must  assist  with 
the  accident.  Do  you  understand  ? '  *  Perfectly,  mas- 
ter ;  we  must  make  some  individual  have  a  draught  of 
the  Seine,  as  if  by  accident  ?  I'll  do  it ;  only,  as  the 
dish  to  be  dressed  is  a  dainty  one,  why,  the  seasoning 
will  cost  rather  dear.'  '  How  much  for  two  ? '  '  For 
two  ?  What !  are  there  two  persons  who  are  to  have  a 
mess  of  broth  in  the  river  ? '  4  Yes.'  4  Five  hundred 
francs  a  head,  master ;  that's  not  too  dear.'  4  Agreed, 
for  a  thousand  francs.'  '  Money  down,  master  ? '  '  Two 
hundred  francs  now,  and  the  rest  afterwards.'  '  Then 
you  doubt  me,  master  ? '  4  No  ;  you  may  pocket  the  two 
76 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 

hundred  francs,  without  completing  the  bargain.'  '  And 
you  may  say,  after  it's  done,  "  Don't  you  wish  you  may 
get  it  ?  "  '  '  That  as  may  be  ;  but  does  it  suit  you  ?  yes 
or  no.  Two  hundred  francs  down,  and  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  after  to-morrow,  here,  at  nine  o'clock,  I  will 
give  you  the  eight  hundred  francs.'  '  And  who  will  in- 
form you  that  I  have  done  the  trick  with  these  two  per- 
sons ? '  'I  shall  know ;  that  is  my  affair.  Is  it  a 
bargain  ?  '  '  Yes,  master.'  '  Here  are  two  hundred 
francs.  Now  listen  to  me ;  you  will  know  again  the  old 
woman  who  was  at  your  house  this  morning  ? '  '  Yes, 
master.'  '  To-morrow,  or  next  day  at  latest,  you  will 
see  her  come,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  evening,  on  the 
bank  in  face  of  your  island  with  a  young  fair  girl.  The 
old  woman  will  make  a  signal  to  you  by  waving  her 
handkerchief.'  '  Yes,  master.'  '  What  time  does  it  take 
to  go  from  the  bank-side  to  your  island  ? '  '  Twenty 
minutes,  quite.'  '  Your  boats  are  flat-bottomed  ? '  'Flat 
as  your  hand,  master.'  '  Then  you  must  make,  very 
skilfully,  a  sort  of  large  hole  in  the  bottom  of  one  of 
fhese  boats,  so  that,  when  you  open  it,  the  water  may 
flow  in  rapidly.  Do  you  understand  ? '  '  Quite  well, 
master  ;  how  clever  you  are  !  I  have  by  me  a  worn-out 
old  boat,  half  rotten,  that  I  was  going  to  break  up,  but 
it  will  just  do  for  this  one  more  voyage.'  i  You  will  then 
leave  the  island  with  this  boat,  with  the  hole  prepared  ; 
let  a  good  boat  follow  you,  conducted  by  some  one  of 
your  family.  Go  to  the  shore,  accost  the  old  woman 
and  the  fair  young  girl,  and  take  them  on  board  the 
boat  with  the  hole  in  it ;  then  go  back  towards  your 
island;  but,  when  you  are  at  some  distance  from  the 
bank,  pretend  to  stoop  for  some  purpose,  open  the  hole, 
and  leap  into  the  other  boat,  whilst  the  old  woman  and 
the  fair  young  girl  — '  '  Drink  out  of  the  same  cup,  — 
that's  it,  —  eh,  master?'  'But  are  you  sure  you  will 
not  be  interrupted  ?  Suppose  some  customers  should 
come  to  your  house  ? '  '  There  is  no  fear,  master.  At 
77 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


this  time,  and  especially  in  winter,  no  one  comes,  it  is 
our  dead  time  of  year  ;  and,  if  they  come,  that  would 
not  be  troublesome ;  on  the  contrary,  they  are  all  good 
friends.'  '  Very  well.  Besides,  you  in  no  way  com- 
promise yourselves  ;  the  boat  will  be  supposed  to  have 
sunk  from  old  age,  and  the  old  woman  who  brings  the 
young  girl  will  disappear  with  her.  In  order  to  be  quite 
assured  that  they  are  drowned  (by  accident,  mind  !  quite 
by  accident),  you  can,  if  they  rise  to  the  surface,  or  if 
they  cling  to  the  boat,  appear  to  do  all  in  your  power  to 
assist  them,  and  — '  'Help  them  —  to  sink  again! 
Good,  master  ! '  'It  will  be  requisite  that  the  passage 
be  made  after  sunset,  in  order  that  it  may  be  quite  dark 
when  they  fall  into  the  water.'  '  No,  master ;  for  if  one 
does  not  see  clear,  how  shall  we  know  if  the  two  women 
swallow  their  doses  at  one  gulp,  or  want  a  second  ? ' 
'  True ;  and,  therefore,  the  accident  will  take  place  be- 
fore sunset.'  '  All  right,  master ;  but  the  old  woman  has 
no  suspicion,  has  she  ? '  '  Not  the  slightest.  When  she 
arrives,  she  will  whisper  to  you  :  "  The  young  girl  is  to 
be  drowned  ;  a  little  while  before  you  sink  the  boat, 
make  me  a  signal,  that  I  may  be  ready  to  escape  with 
you."  You  will  reply  to  the  old  woman  in  such  a  way  as 
to  avoid  all  suspicion.'  '  So  that  she  may  suppose  the 
young  'un  only  is  going  to  swallow  the  dose  ? '  '  But 
which  she  will  drink  as  well  as  the  fair  girl.'  '  It's 
"  downily "  arranged,  master.'  '  But  mind  the  old 
woman  has  not  the  slightest  suspicion.'  '  Be  easy  on 
that  score,  master  ;  she  will  be  done  as  nicely  as  possi- 
ble.' '  Well,  then,  good  luck  to  you,  my  lad  !  If  I  am 
satisfied,  perhaps  I  shall  give  you  another  job.'  '  At 
your  service,  master.'  Then,"  said  the  ruffian,  in  con- 
clusion, "  I  left  the  man  in  the  cloak,  and  '  prigged  the 
swag '  I've  just  brought  in." 

We  may  glean  from  Nicholas's  recital  that  the  notary 
was  desirous,  by  a  twofold  crime,  of  getting  rid  at  once 
of  Fleur-de-Marie  and  Madame  Seraphin,  by  causing  the 
78 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


latter  to  fall  into  the  snare  which  she  thought  was  only 
spread  for  the  Goualeuse.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  re- 
peat that,  justly  alarmed  lest  the  Chouette  should  inform 
Fleur-de-Marie  at  any  moment  that  she  had  been  aban- 
doned by  Madame  S£raphin,  Jacques  Ferrand  believed  he 
had  a  paramount  interest  in  getting  rid  of  this  young 
girl,  whose  claims  might  mortally  injure  him  both  in  his 
fortune  and  in  his  reputation.  As  to  Madame  Se'raphin, 
the  notary,  by  sacrificing  her,  got  rid  of  one  of  his  ac- 
complices (Bradamanti  was  the  other),  who  might  ruin 
him,  whilst  they  ruined  themselves,  it  is  true ;  but 
Jacques  Ferrand  believed  that  the  grave  would  keep 
his  secrets  better  than  any  personal  interests. 

The  felon's  widow  and  Calabash  had  listened  atten- 
tively to  Nicholas,  who  had  not  paused  except  to  swallow 
large  quantities  of  wine,  and  then  he  began  to  talk  with 
considerable  excitement. 

"  That  is  not  all,"  he  continued.  "  I  have  begun 
another  affair  with  the  Chouette  and  Barbillon  of  the 
Rue  aux  Feves.  It  is  a  capital  job,  well  planted  ;  and  if 
it  does  not  miss  fire,  it  will  bring  plenty  of  fish  to  net, 
and  no  mistake.  It  is  to  clean  out  a  jewel-matcher, 
who  has  sometimes  as  much  as  fifty  thousand  francs  in 
jewelry  in  her  basket." 

"  Fifty  thousand  francs ! "  cried  the  mother  and 
daughter,  whose  eyes  sparkled  with  cupidity. 

"  Yes  —  quite.  Bras  Rouge  is  in  it  with  us.  He 
yesterday  opened  upon  the  woman  with  a  letter  which 
we  carried  to  her  —  Barbillon  and  I  —  at  her  house, 
Boulevard  St.  Denis.  He's  an  out-and-outer,  Bras  Rouge 
is !  As  he  appears  —  and,  I  believe,  is  —  well-to-do, 
nobody  mistrusts  him.  To  make  the  jewel-matcher 
bite  he  has  already  sold  her  a  diamond  worth  four 
hundred  francs.  She'll  not  be  afraid  to  come  towards 
nightfall  to  his  cabaret  in  the  Champs  Elysdes.  We 
shall  be  concealed  there.  Calabash  may  come  with  us, 
and  take  care  of  my  boat  along  the  side  of  the  Seine. 
79 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


If  we  are  obliged  to  carry  her  off,  dead  or  alive,  that 
will  be  a  convenient  conveyance,  and  one  that  leaves  no 
traces.  There's  a  plan  for  you !  That  beggar  Bras 
Rouge  is  nothing  but  a  good  'un !  " 

"  I  have  always  distrusted  Bras  Rouge,"  said  the 
widow.  "After  that  affair  of  the  Rue  Montmartre 
your  brother  Ambroise  was  sent  to  Toulon,  and  Bras 
Rouge  was  set  at  liberty." 

"  Because  he's  so  downy  there's  no  proofs  against 
him.    But  betray  others  ?  —  never ! " 

The  widow  shook  her  head,  as  if  she  were  only 
half  convinced  of  Bras  Rouge's  probity.  After  a  few 
moments'  reflection  she  said : 

"  I  like  much  better  that  affair  of  the  Quai  de  Billy 
for  to-morrow  or  next  day  evening,  —  the  drowning  the 
two  women.    But  Martial  will  be  in  the  way  as  usual." 

"  Will  not  the  devil's  thunder  ever  rid  us  of  him  ? " 
exclaimed  Nicholas,  half  drunk,  and  striking  his  long 
knife  savagely  on  the  table. 

"  I  have  told  mother  that  we  had  enough  of  him,  and 
that  we  could  not  go  on  in  this  way,"  said  Calabash. 
"  As  long  as  he  is  here  we  can  do  nothing  with  the 
children." 

"  I  tell  you  that  he  is  capable  of  one  day  denouncing 
us,  —  the  villain  !  "  said  Nicholas.  "  You  see,  mother,  if 
you  would  have  believed  me,"  he  added,  with  a  savage 
and  significant  air,  "  all  would  have  been  settled  !  " 

"  There  are  other  means  —  " 

"  This  is  the  best !  "  said  the  ruffian. 

"  Now  ?  No ! "  replied  the  widow,  with  a  tone  so 
decided  that  Nicholas  was  silent,  overcome  by  the  influ- 
ence of  his  mother,  whom  he  knew  to  be  as  criminal,  as 
wicked,  but  still  more  determined  than  himself. 

The  widow  added,  "  To-morrow  he  will  quit  the  island 
for  ever." 

"  How  ?  "  inquired  Nicholas  and  Calabash  at  the  same 
time. 

80 


THE  FRESHWATER  PIRATE. 


"  When  he  comes  in  pick  a  quarrel  with  him,  —  but 
boldly,  mind,  —  out  to  his  face,  as  you  have  never  yet 
dared  to  do.  Come  to  blows,  if  necessary.  He  is 
powerful,  but  you  will  be  two,  for  I  will  help  you. 
Mind,  no  steel,  —  no  blood!  Let  him  be  beaten,  but 
not  wounded." 

"  And  what  then,  mother  ? "  asked  Nicholas. 

"  We  shall  then  explain  afterwards.  We  will  tell 
him  to  leave  the  island  next  day ;  if  not,  that  the 
scenes  of  the  night  before  will  occur  over  and  over 
again.  I  know  him ;  these  perpetual  squabbles  disgust 
him ;  until  now  we  have  let  him  be  too  quiet." 

"  But  he  is  as  obstinate  as  a  mule,  and  is  likely 
enough  to  insist  upon  staying,  because  of  the  chil- 
dren," observed  Calabash. 

"  He's  a  regular  hound ;  but  a  row  don't  frighten 
him,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  One  ?    No  ! "  said  the  widow.    "  But  every  day  — 
day  by  day  —  it  is  hell  in  earth,  and  he  will  give  way." 
*  Suppose  he  don't  ? " 

"Then  I  have  another  sure  means  to  make  him  go 
away,  —  this  very  night  or  to-morrow  at  farthest," 
replied  the  widow,  with  a  singular  smile. 

«  Really,  mother !  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  prefer  rather  to  annoy  him  with  a  row ; 
and,  if  that  don't  do,  why,  then,  it  must  be  the  other 
way." 

"And  if  the  other  way  does  not  succeed,  either, 
mother?"  said  Nicholas. 

"There  is  one  which  always  succeeds,"  replied  the 
widow. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Martial  entered.  It 
blew  so  strong  without  that  they  had  not  heard  the 
barkings  of  the  dogs  at  the  return  of  the  first-born 
son  of  the  felon's  widow. 


81 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 

Unaware  of  the  evil  designs  of  his  family,  Martial 
entered  the  kitchen  slowly. 

Some  few  words  let  fall  by  La  Louve  in  her  con- 
versation with  Fleur-de-Marie  have  already  acquainted 
the  reader  with  the  singular  existence  of  this  man. 
Endowed  with  excellent  natural  instincts,  incapable 
of  an  action  positively  base  or  wicked,  Martial  did  not, 
however,  lead  a  regular  life  :  he  poached  on  the  water ; 
but  his  strength  and  his  boldness  inspired  so  much  fear 
that  the  keepers  of  the  river  shut  their  eyes  on  this 
irregularity. 

To  this  illegal  occupation  Martial  joined  another  that 
was  equally  illicit.  A  redoubtable  champion,  he  will- 
ingly undertook  —  and  more  from  excess  of  courage, 
from  love  of  the  thing,  than  for  gain  —  to  avenge  in 
pugilistic  or  single-stick  encounters  those  victims  who 
had  been  overcome  by  too  powerful  opponents. 

We  should  add  that  Martial  was  very  particular  in 
the  selection  of  those  causes  which  he  pleaded  by 
strength  of  fist,  and  usually  took  the  part  of  the  weak 
against  the  strong. 

La  Louve's  lover  was  very  much  like  Francois  and 
Amandine.  He  was  of  middle  height,  stout,  and  broad- 
shouldered  ;  his  thick  red  hair,  cropped  short,  came  in 
five  points  over  his  open  brow  ;  his  close,  harsh,  short 
beard,  his  broad,  bluff  cheeks,  his  projecting  nose,  flat- 
82 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


tened  at  the  extremity,  his  blue  and  bold  eyes,  gave  to 
his  masculine  features  a  singularly  resolute  expression. 

He  was  covered  with  an  old  glazed  hat ;  and,  despite 
the  cold,  he  had  only  a  worn-out  blouse  over  his  vest, 
and  a  pair  of  velveteen  trousers,  which  had  seen  con- 
siderable service.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  very  thick, 
knotted  stick,  which  he  put  down  beside  him  near  the 
dresser. 

A  large  dog,  half  terrier,  half  hound,  with  crooked 
legs  and  a  black  hide,  marked  with  bright  red,  came  in 
with  Martial,  but  he  remained  close  to  the  door,  not 
daring  to  approach  the  fire,  nor  the  guests  who  were 
sitting  at  table,  experience  having  proved  to  old  Miraut 
(that  was  the  name  of  Martial's  poaching  companion) 
that  he,  as  well  as  his  master,  did  not  possess  much  of 
the  sympathy  of  the  family. 

"  Where  are  the  children  ? "  were  Martial's  first 
words,  as  he  sat  down  to  table. 

"  Where  they  ought  to  be,"  replied  Calabash,  surlily. 

"  Where  are  the  children,  mother  ? "  said  Martial 
again,  without  taking  the  slightest  notice  of  his  sister's 
reply. 

"  Gone  to  bed,"  replied  the  widow,  in  a  harsh  tone. 

"  Haven't  they  had  their  supper,  mother  ? " 

"  What's  that  to  you  ? "  exclaimed  Nicholas,  brutally, 
after  having  swallowed  a  large  glass  of  wine  to  increase 
his  courage,  for  his  brother's  disposition  and  strength 
had  a  very  strong  effect  on  him. 

Martial,  as  indifferent  to  the  attacks  of  Nicholas  as  to 
those  of  Calabash,  then  said  to  his  mother,  "  I'm  sorry 
the  children  are  gone  to  bed  so  soon." 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  responded  the  widow. 

"  Yes,  so  much  the  worse ;  for  I  like  to  have  them 
beside  me  when  I  am  at  supper." 

"  And  we,  because  they  were  troublesome  and 
annoyed  us,  have  sent  them  off,"  cried  Nicholas; 
"  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  why,  you  can  go  after  them." 
83 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Martial,  astonished,  looked  steadfastly  at  his  brother. 
Then,  as  if  convinced  of  the  futility  of  a  quarrel,  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  cut  off  a  slice  of  bread  and  a 
piece  of  meat. 

The  dog  had  come  up  towards  Nicholas,  although 
keeping  at  a  very  respectful  distance ;  and  the  ruffian, 
irritated  at  the  disdain  with  which  his  brother  treated 
him,  and  hoping  to  wear  out  his  patience  by  ill-using 
his  dog,  gave  Miraut  a  savage  kick,  which  made  the 
poor  brute  howl  fearfully.  Martial  turned  red,  clasped 
in  his  hand  the  knife  he  held,  and  struck  violently 
on  the  table  with  the  handle ;  but,  again  controlling 
himself,  he  called  the  dog  to  him,  saying,  quietly, "  Here, 
Miraut !  "  The  hound  came,  and  crouched  at  his  master's 
feet. 

This  composure  quite  upset  Nicholas's  plans,  who  was 
desirous  of  pushing  his  brother  to  extremities,  in  order 
to  produce  an  explosion.  So  he  added,  "  I  hate  dogs  —  I 
do  ;  and  I  won't  have  this  dog  remain  here."  Martial's 
only  reply  was  to  pour  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and  drink  it 
off  slowly.  Exchanging  a  rapid  glance  with  Nicholas, 
the  widow  encouraged  him  by  a  signal  to  continue  his 
hostilities  towards  Martial,  hoping,  as  we  have  said,  that 
a  violent  quarrel  would  arise  that  would  lead  to  a  rup- 
ture and  complete  separation. 

Nicholas,  then,  taking  up  the  willow  stick  which  the 
widow  had  used  to  beat  Francois,  went  up  to  the  dog, 
and,  striking  him  sharply,  said,  "  Get  out,  you  brute, 
Miraut!" 

Up  to  this  time  Nicholas  had  often  shown  himself 
sulkily  offensive  towards  Martial,  but  he  had  never 
dared  to  provoke  him  with  so  much  audacity  and 
perseverance.  La  Louve's  lover,  thinking  they  were 
desirous  of  driving  him  to  extremities  for  some  secret 
motive,  quelled  every  impulse  of  temper. 

At  the  cry  of  the  beaten  dog,  Martial  rose,  opened  the 
door  of  the  kitchen,  made  the  dog  go  out,  and  then 
81 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


returned,  and  went  on  with  his  supper.  This  incredible 
patience,  so  little  in  harmony  with  Martial's  usual  de- 
meanour, puzzled  and  nonplussed  his  aggressors,  who 
looked  at  each  other  with  amazement.  He,  affecting  to 
appear  wholly  unconscious  of  what  was  passing  around 
him,  ate  away  with  great  appetite,  keeping  profound 
silence. 

"  Calabash,  take  the  wine  away,"  said  the  widow  to 
her  daughter. 

She  hastened  to  comply,  when  Martial  said,  "  Stay,  I 
haven't  done  my  supper." 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  said  the  widow,  taking  the 
bottle  away  herself. 

"  Oh,  that's  another  thing !  "  answered  La  Louve's 
lover.  And  pouring  out  a  large  glass  of  water,  he 
drank  it,  smacking  his  tongue,  and  exclaiming,  "  Capital 
water !  " 

This  excessive  calmness  irritated  the  burning  anger 
of  Nicholas,  already  heated  by  copious  libations ;  but 
still  he  hesitated  at  making  a  direct  attack,  well  know- 
ing the  vast  power  of  his  brother.  Suddenly  he  cried 
out,  as  if  delighted  at  the  idea,  "  Martial,  you  were  quite 
right  to  turn  the  dog  out.  It  is  a  good  habit  to  begin  to 
give  way,  for  you  have  but  to  wait  a  bit,  and  you  will 
see  us  kick  your  sweetheart  out  just  as  we  have  driven 
away  your  dog." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  for  if  La  Louve  is  impudent  enough  to 
come  to  the  island  when  she  leaves  gaol,"  added  Cala- 
bash, who  quite  understood  Nicholas's  motive,  "  I'll 
serve  her  out." 

"  And  I'll  give  her  a  dip  in  the  mud  by  the  hovel  at 
the  end  of  the  island,"  continued  Nicholas ;  "  and,  if  she 
gets  out,  I'll  give  her  a  few  rattlers  over  the  nob  with 
my  wooden  shoe,  the   " 

This  insult  addressed  to  La  Louve,  whom  he  loved 
with  savage  ardour,  triumphed  over  the  pacific  resolu- 
tions of  Martial ;  he  frowned,  and  the  blood  mounted 
85 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


to  his  cheeks,  whilst  the  veins  in  his  brow  swelled  and 
distended  like  cords.  Still,  he  had  so  much  control  over 
himself  as  to  say  to  Nicholas,  in  a  voice  slightly  altered 
by  his  repressed  wrath : 

"  Take  care  of  yourself !  You  are  trying  to  pick  a 
quarrel,  and  you  will  find  a  bone  to  pick  that  will  be 
too  tough  for  you." 

"  A  bone  for  me  to  pick  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  I'll  thrash  you  more  soundly  than  I  did 
last  time." 

"  What !  Nicholas,"  said  Calabash,  with  a  sardonic 
grin,  "  did  Martial  thrash  you  ?  Did  you  hear  that, 
mother  ?  I'm  not  astonished  that  Nicholas  is  so  afraid 
of  him." 

"  He  walloped  me,  because,  like  a  coward,  he  took  me  off 
my  guard,"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  turning  pale  with  rage. 

"  You  lie  !  You  attacked  me  unexpectedly  ;  I  knocked 
you  flat,  and  then  showed  you  mercy.  But  if  you  talk 
of  my  mistress,  —  I  say,  mind  you,  of  my  mistress, — 
this  time  I  look  it  over,  —  you  shall  carry  my  marks  for 
many  a  long  day." 

"  And  suppose  I  choose  to  talk  of  La  Louve  ? " 
inquired  Calabash. 

"  Why,  I'll  pull  your  ears  to  put  you  on  your  guard ; 
and  if  you  begin  again,  why,  so  will  I." 

"  And  suppose  I  speak  of  her  ? "  said  the  widow, 
slowly. 

"You?" 

«  Yes,  — I!" 

"  You  ? "  said  Martial,  making  a  violent  effort  over 
himself ;  "  you  ? " 

"  You'll  beat  me,  too,  I  suppose,  —  won't  you  ? " 

"  No  ;  but,  if  you  speak  to  me  unkindly  of  La  Louve, 
I'll  give  Nicholas  a  hiding  he  shall  long  remember.  So 
now,  mind !     It  is  his  affair  as  well  as  yours." 

"  You  ? "  exclaimed  the  ruffian,  rising,  and  drawing 
his  dangerous  Spanish  knife ;  "  you  give  me  a  hiding  ? " 
86 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


"  Nicholas,  no  steel ! "  cried  the  widow,  quickly,  leav- 
ing her  seat,  and  trying  to  seize  her  son's  arm ;  but 
he,  drunk  with  wine  and  passion,  repulsed  his  mother 
savagely,  and  rushed  at  his  brother. 

Martial  receded  rapidly,  laid  hold  of  the  thick, 
knotted  stick  which  he  had  put  down  by  the  dresser, 
as  he  entered,  and  betook  himself  to  the  defensive. 

"  Nicholas,  no  steel !  "  repeated  the  widow. 

"  Let  him  alone ! "  cried  Calabash,  taking  up  the 
ravageur's  hatchet. 

Nicholas,  still  brandishing  his  formidable  knife, 
watched  for  a  moment  when  he  could  spring  on  his 
brother. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  and  your  trollop, 
La  Louve,  that'll  I'll  slash  your  eyes  out ;  and  here  goes 
to  begin !  Help,  mother !  Help,  Calabash  !  Let's  make 
cold  meat  of  the  scamp ;  he's  been  in  our  way  too  long 
already  ! "  And,  believing  the  moment  favourable  for 
his  attack,  the  brigand  dashed  at  his  brother  with  his 
uplifted  knife. 

Martial,  who  was  a  dexterous  cudgeller,  retreated  a 
pace  rapidly,  raising  his  stick,  which,  as  quick  as  light- 
ning, cut  a  figure  of  eight,  and  fell  so  heavily  on  the  right 
forearm  of  Nicholas  that  he,  seized  with  a  sudden  and 
overpowering  pain,  dropped  his  trenchant  weapon. 

"  Villain,  you  have  broken  my  arm !  "  he  shouted, 
grasping  with  his  left  hand  the  right  arm,  which  hung 
useless  by  his  side. 

"  No ;  for  I  felt  my  stick  rebound !  "  replied  Martial, 
kicking,  as  he  spoke,  the  knife  underneath  the  dresser. 

Then,  taking  advantage  of  the  pain  which  Nicholas 
was  suffering,  he  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  thrust 
him  violently  backwards,  until  he  had  reached  the  door 
of  the  little  cellar  we  have  alluded  to,  which  he  opened 
with  one  hand,  whilst,  with  the  other,  he  thrust  his 
brother  into  it,  and  locked  him  in,  all  stupefied  as  he 
was  with  this  sudden  attack. 

87 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


Then,  turning  round  upon  the  two  women,  he  seized 
Calabash  by  the  shoulders,  and,  in  spite  of  her  resistance, 
her  shrieks,  and  a  blow  from  the  hatchet,  which  cut  his 
head  slightly,  he  shut  her  up  in  the  lower  room  of  the 
cabaret,  which  communicated  with  the  kitchen. 

Then  addressing  the  widow,  who  was  still  stupefied 
with  this  manoeuvre,  as  skilful  as  it  was  sudden,  Martial 
said  to  her,  calmly,  "  Now,  mother,  you  and  I  are  alone." 

"  Yes,  we  are  alone,"  replied  the  widow,  and  her 
usually  immobile  features  became  excited,  her  sallow 
skin  grew  red,  a  gloomy  fire  lighted  up  her  dull  eye, 
whilst  anger  and  hate  gave  to  her  countenance  a  terrible 
expression.  "  Yes,  we  two  are  alone  now  !  "  she  repeated, 
in  a  menacing  voice.  "  I  have  waited  for  this  moment ; 
and  at  length  you  shall  know  all  that  I  have  on  my 
mind." 

"  And  I  will  tell  you  all  I  have  on  my  mind." 

"  If  you  live  to  be  a  hundred  years  old,  I  tell  you  you 
shall  remember  this  night." 

"  I  shall  remember  it,  unquestionably.  My  brother 
and  sister  have  tried  to  murder  me,  and  you  have  done 
nothing  to  prevent  them.  But  come,  let  me  hear  what 
you  have  against  me  ?  " 

»  What  have  I  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Since  your  father's  death  you  have  acted  nothing 
but.  a  coward's  part." 
a  I?" 

"  Yes,  a  coward's !  Instead  of  remaining  with  us  to 
support  us,  you  went  off  to  Rambouillet,  to  poach  in  the 
woods  with  that  man  who  sells  game  whom  you  knew 
at  Bercy." 

"  If  I  had  remained  here,  I  should  have  been  at  the 
galleys  like  Ambroise,  or  on  the  point  of  going  there 
like  Nicholas.  I  would  not  be  a  robber  like  the  rest, 
and  that  is  the  cause  of  your  hatred." 

"  And  what  track  are  you  following  now  ?  You 
88 


THE  MOTHER  AXD  SON. 


steal  game,  you  steal  fish,  —  thefts  without  danger,  — 
a  coward's  thefts!" 

"Fish,  like  game,  is  no  man's  property.  To-day 
belongs  to  one,  to-morrow  to  another.  It  is  his  who 
can  take  it.    I  don't  steal.    As  to  being  a  coward  —  " 

"  Why,  you  fight  —  and  for  money  —  men  who  are 
weaker  than  yourself." 

"  Because  they  have  beaten  men  weaker  than  them- 
selves." 

"  A  coward's  trade,  —  a  coward's  trade  !  " 

"Why,  there  are  more  honest  pursuits,  it  is  true. 
But  it  is  not  for  you  to  tell  me  this!" 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  take  up  with  those  honest 
trades,  instead  of  coming  here  skulking  and  feeding  out 
of  my  saucepans  ? " 

"  I  give  you  the  fish  I  catch,  and  what  money  I  have. 
It  isn't  much,  but  it's  enough ;  and  I  don't  cost  you  any- 
thing. I  have  tried  to  be  a  locksmith  to  earn  more ;  but 
when  one  has  from  one's  infancy  led  a  vagabond  life  on 
the  river  and  in  the  woods,  it  is  impossible  to  confine 
oneself  to  one  spot.  It  is  a  settled  thing,  and  one's  life 
is  decided.  And  then,"  added  Martial,  with  a  gloomy 
air,  "  I  have  always  preferred  living  alone  on  the  water 
or  in  the  forest.  There  no  one  questions  me ;  whilst 
elsewhere  men  twit  me  about  my  father,  who  was  (can 
I  deny  it  ?)  guillotined,  —  of  my  brother,  a  galley-slave, 
—  of  my  sister,  a  thief !  " 

"  And  what  do  you  say  of  your  mother  ?  " 

"I  say  —  " 

«  What?" 

"  I  say  she  is  dead." 

"  You  do  right ;  it  is  as  if  I  were,  for  I  renounce  you, 
dastard !  Your  brother  is  at  the  galleys  ;  your  grand- 
father and  your  father  finished  their  lives  daringly  on 
the  scaffold,  mocking  the  priest  and  the  executioner ! 
Instead  of  avenging  them  you  tremble ! " 

"  Avenging  them  ?  " 

89 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Yes,  by  showing  yourself  a  real  Martial,  spitting  at 
the  headsman's  knife  and  the  red  cassock,  and  ending 
like  father,  mother,  brother,  sister  —  " 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  savage  excitement  of 
his  mother,  Martial  could  not  forbear  shuddering.  The 
countenance  of  the  widow  as  she  uttered  the  last 
words  was  fearful.  She  continued,  with  increasing 
wrath  : 

"  Oh,  coward  !  and  even  worse  than  coward !  You 
wish  to  be  honest!  Honest?  Why,  won't  you  ever 
be  despised,  repulsed,  as  the  son  of  an  assassin  or  the 
brother  of  a  felon  ?  But  you,  instead  of  rousing  your 
revenge  and  wrath,  this  makes  you  frightened !  Instead 
of  biting,  you  run  away !  When  they  guillotined  your 
father,  you  left  us,  —  coward !  And  you  knew  we  could 
not  leave  the  island  to  go  into  the  city,  because  they  call 
after  us,  and  pelt  us  with  stones,  like  mad  dogs.  Oh, 
they  shall  pay  for  it,  I  can  tell  you,  —  they  shall  pay 
for  it ! " 

"  A  man  ?  —  ten  men  would  not  make  me  afraid ! 
But  to  be  called  after  by  all  the  world  as  the  son  and 
brother  of  criminals !  Well,  I  could  not  endure  it.  I 
preferred  going  into  the  woods  and  poaching  with  Pierre, 
who  sells  game." 

"  Why  didn't  you  remain  in  the  woods  ? " 

"  I  returned  because  I  got  into  trouble  with  a  keeper, 
and  besides  on  the  children's  account,  because  they  are 
of  an  age  to  take  to  evil  from  example." 

"  And  what  is  that  to  you  ? " 

"  To  me  ?    Why,  I  will  not  allow  them  to  become 
depraved  like  Ambroise,  Nicholas,  and  Calabash." 
« Indeed ! " 

"  And  if  they  were  left  with  you,  then  they  would  not 
fail  to  become  so.  I  went  apprentice  to  try  and  gain  a 
livelihood,  so  that  I  might  take  them  into  my  own  care 
and  leave  the  island  with  the  children  ;  but  in  Paris 
everything  was  known,  and  it  was  always, '  You  son  of 
90 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


the  guillotined  ! '  or,  '  You  brother  of  the  felon ! '  I  had 
battles  daily,  and  I  grew  tired  of  it." 

"  But  you  didn't  grow  tired  of  being  honest,  —  that 
answered  so  well !  Instead  of  having  the  pluck  to  come 
to  us,  and  do  as  we  do,  —  as  the  children  will  do,  in 
spite  of  you,  —  yes,  in  spite  of  you!  You  think  to 
cajole  them  with  your  preaching !  But  we  are  always 
here.  Francois  is  already  one  of  us,  or  nearly.  Let 
the  occasion  serve,  and  he'll  be  one  of  the  band." 

«  I  tell  you,  no  ! " 

"  You  will  see,  —  yes !  I  know  what  I  say.  He  has 
vice  in  him ;  but  you  spoil  him.  As  to  Amandine,  as 
soon  as  she  is  fifteen  she  will  begin  on  her  own  account ! 
Ah,  they  throw  stones  at  us !  Ah,  they  pursue  us  like 
mad  dogs !  They  shall  see  what  our  family  is  made  of ! 
Except  you,  dastard ;  for  here  you  are  the  only  one  who 
brings  down  shame  upon  us !  "  1 

"  That's  a  pity  !  " 

"  And  as  you  may  be  spoiled  amongst  us,  why,  to-mor- 
row you  shall  leave  this  place,  and  never  return  to  it." 

Martial  looked  at  his  mother  with  surprise,  then,  after 
a  moment's  silence,  said,  "  Was  it  for  this  that  you  tried 
to  get  up  a  quarrel  with  me  at  supper  ? " 

"  Yes,  to  show  you  what  you  might  expect  if  you 
would  stay  here  in  spite  of  us,  —  a  hell  upon  earth,  —  I 
tell  you,  a  hell !    Every  day  a  quarrel  and  blows — 


1  These  frightful  facts  are,  unfortunately,  not  exaggerated.  The  follow- 
ing is  from  the  admirable  report  of  M.  de  Bretigneres  on  the  Penitentiary- 
Colony  of  Mettray  (March  12, 1843)  : 

"  The  civil  condition  of  our  colonists  it  is  important  to  state.  Amongst 
them  we  count  thirty-two  natural  children  ;  thirty-four  whose  fathers  and 
mothers  are  re-married  ;  fifty-one  whose  parents  are  in  prison;  124  whose 
parents  have  not  been  pursued  by  justice,  but  are  in  the  utmost  distress. 
These  figures  are  eloquent,  and  full  of  instruction.  They  allow  us  to  go 
from  effects  to  causes,  and  give  us  the  hope  of  arresting  the  progress  of  an 
evil  whose  origin  is  thus  arrived  at.  The  number  of  parents  who  are  crimi- 
nals enable  us  to  appreciate  the  education  which  the  children  have  received 
under  the  tutelage  of  such  instructors.  Taught  evil  by  their  fathers,  the 
sons  have  become  wicked  by  their  orders,  and  have  believed  they  were  acting 
properly  in  following  their  example.  Arrested  by  the  hand  of  the  law,  they 
resign  themselves  to  share  the  destiny  of  their  family  in  prison,  to  which 
they  only  bring  the  emulation  of  vice  ;  and  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  a 
ray  of  divine  light  should  still  exist  within  these  rude  and  coarse  natures,  in 
order  that  all  the  germs  of  honesty  should  not  be  utterly  destroyed." 

91 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


struggles.  And  we  shall  not  be  alone  as  we  were  this 
evening ;  we  shall  have  friends  who  will  help  us.  And 
you  will  not  hold  out  for  a  week." 

"  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me  ? " 

"  I  only  tell  you  what  will  happen." 

"  I  don't  heed  it.    I  shall  stay  ! " 

"  You  will  stay  ? " 

«  Yes." 

"  In  spite  of  us  ?  " 

"In  spite  of  you,  of  Calabash,  of  Nicholas,  and  all 
blackguards  like  him." 

"  Really,  you  make  me  laugh." 

From  the  lips  of  this  woman,  with  her  repulsive  and 
ferocious  look,  these  words  were  horrible. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  remain  here  until  I  find  the  means 
of  gaining  my  livelihood  elsewhere  with  the  children. 
Alone,  I  should  not  long  be  unemployed,  for  I  could 
return  to  the  woods ;  but,  on  their  account,  I  may  be 
some  time  in  finding  what  I  am  seeking  for.  In  the 
meanwhile,  here  I  remain." 

"  Oh,  you  remain  until  the  moment  when  you  can 
take  away  the  children  ?  " 

"  Exactly  as  you  say." 

"  Take  away  the  children  ?  " 

"  When  I  say  to  them  '  Come  ! '  they  will  come ;  and 
quickly  too,  I  promise  you." 

The  widow  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  replied : 

"  Listen  !  I  told  you  a  short  time  since  that,  even  if 
you  were  to  live  for  a  hundred  years,  you  should  recol- 
lect this  night.  I  will  explain  those  words.  But,  before 
I  do  so,  have  you  quite  made  up  your  mind  ? " 

"  Yes !   Yes !    Yes !    A  thousand  times  over,  yes !  " 

"  In  a  little  while,  however,  you  will  say  '  No !  No  ! 
No !  A  thousand  times,  no ! '  Listen  to  me  attentively  ! 
Do  you  know  the  trade  your  brother  follows  ? " 

"  I  have  my  suspicions  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  know." 

"  You  shall  know.    He  steals  !  " 

92 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


"  So  much  the  worse  for  him  !  " 
"  And  for  you ! " 
"  For  me  ?  " 

"  He  commits  robberies  at  night,  with  forcible  entry, 
—  burglary ;  a  case  of  the  galleys.  We  receive  what 
he  plunders.  If  we  are  discovered,  we  shall  be  sen- 
tenced to  the  same  punishment  as  he  is,  as  receivers, 
and  you  too.  They  will  sweep  away  the  whole  family, 
and  the  children  will  be  turned  out  into  the  streets, 
where  they  will  learn  the  trade  of  their  father  and 
grandfather  as  well  as  here." 

"  I  apprehended  as  a  receiver,  —  as  your  accomplice  ? 
Where's  the  proofs  ? " 

"  No  one  knows  how  you  live.  You  are  vagabondis- 
ing on  the  water ;  you  have  the  reputation  of  a  bad 
fellow ;  you  dwell  with  us,  and  who  will  believe  that 
you  are  ignorant  of  our  thefts  and  receivings  ?  " 

"  I  will  prove  the  contrary." 

"  We  will  accuse  you  as  our  accomplice." 

"  Accuse  me  !    And  why  ?  " 

"  To  pay  you  off  for  staying  amongst  us  against  our 
will." 

"  Just  now  you  tried  to  make  me  frightened  in  one 
way,  now  you  are  trying  another  tack.  But  it  won't 
do.    I  will  prove  that  I  never  robbed.    I  remain." 

"Ah!  You  remain?  Listen  then,  again!  Do  you 
remember  last  year  a  person  who  passed  the  Christmas 
night  here  ?  " 

"  Christmas  night  ?  "  said  Martial,  trying  to  recall  his 
memory. 

"  Try  and  remember,  —  try ! " 

"  I  do  not  recollect." 

"  Don't  you  recollect  that  Bras  Rouge  brought  here 
in  the  evening  a  well-dressed  man,  who  was  desirous  of 
concealing  himself  ?  " 

"  Yes,  now  I  remember.  I  went  up  to  bed  and  left 
him  taking  his  supper  with  you.  He  passed  the  night 
93 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


here,  and,  before  daybreak,  Nicholas  took  him  to  St. 
Ouen." 

"  You  are  sure  Nicholas  took  him  to  St.  Ouen  ? " 
"  You  told  me  so  next  morning." 
"  On  Christmas  night  you  were  here  ?  " 
"Yes;  and  what  of  that?" 

u  Why,  that  night  this  man,  who  had  a  good  deal  of 
money  about  him,  was  murdered  in  this  house." 
"Mur— !    He!  Here?" 

"  And  robbed  and  buried  by  the  little  wood-pile." 

"  It  is  not  true ! "  cried  Martial,  becoming  pale  with 
horror,  and  unable  to  believe  in  this  fresh  crime  of  his 
family.  "  You  mean  to  frighten  me.  Once  more,  it  is 
not  true  ?  " 

"Ask  Francis  what  he  saw  this  morning  in  the 
wood-pile." 

"  Francois  !    And  what  did  he  see  ?  " 

"  A  man's  foot  sticking  out  of  the  ground.  Take  a 
lantern  ;  go  and  convince  your  eyes ! " 

"  No,"  said  Martial,  wiping  his  brow,  which  had  burst 
forth  in  a  cold  sweat.  "  No,  I  do  not  believe  you.  You 
say  it  to  —  " 

"  To  prove  to  you  that,  if  you  remain  here  in  spite 
of  us,  you  risk  every  moment  being  apprehended  as  an 
accomplice  in  robbery  and  murder.  You  were  here  on 
Christmas  night,  and  we  shall  declare  that  you  helped  us 
to  do  this  job.    How  will  you  prove  the  contrary  ? " 

"  Merciless  wretch !  "  said  Martial,  hiding  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

"  Now  will  you  go  ? "  said  the  widow,  with  a  devilish 
smile. 

Martial  was  overwhelmed.  He,  unfortunately,  could 
not  doubt  what  his  mother  had  said  to  him.  The  wan- 
dering life  he  led,  his  dwelling  with  so  criminal  a 
family,  must  induce  the  most  horrible  suspicions  of 
him,  and  these  suspicions  would  be  converted  into  cer- 
tainty in  the  eyes  of  justice,  if  his  mother,  brother,  and 
94 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


sister  declared  him  to  be  their  accomplice.  The  widow 
was  rejoiced  at  the  depression  of  her  son : 

"  You  have  one  means  of  getting  out  of  the  difficulty : 
denounce  us ! " 

"  I  ought,  but  I  will  not ;  and  you  know  that  right 
well." 

"That  is  why  I  have  told  you  all  this.  Now,  will 
you  go  ?  " 

Martial,  wishing  to  soften  this  hag,  said  to  her,  in  a 
subdued  voice : 

"  Mother,  I  do  not  believe  you  are  capable  of  this 
murder ! " 

"  As  you  please  ;  but  go  !  " 

"  I  will  go  on  one  condition." 

"  No  condition  at  all ! " 

"  You  shall  put  the  children  apprentices  somewhere  in 
the  country." 

"  They  shall  remain  here !  " 

(i  !Rut,  mother,  when  you  have  made  them  like  Nicho- 
las, Calabash,  Ambroise,  my  father,  —  what  good  will 
that  be  to  you  ?  " 

"  To  make  good  '  jobs '  by  their  assistance.  We  are 
not  too  many  now.  Calabash  will  remain  here  with  me 
to  keep  the  cabaret.  Nicholas  is  alone.  Once  properly 
instructed,  Francois  and  Amandine  will  help  him.  They 
have  already  been  pelted  with  stones,  —  young  as  they 
are,  —  and  they  must  revenge  themselves !  " 

"  Mother,  you  love  Calabash  and  Nicholas,  don't  you?" 

"  Well,  if  I  do,  what  then  ?  " 

"  Suppose  the  children  imitate  them,  and  their  crimes 
are  detected  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  then?" 

"  They  will  come  to  the  scaffold,  like  my  father." 
«  What  then  ?    What  then  ?  " 

"  And  does  not  their  probable  fate  make  you  tremble  ?  " 
"  That  fate  will  be  mine,  neither  better  nor  worse. 
I  rob,  they  rob;  I  kill,  they  kill.    Whoever  takes  the 
95 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


mother  will  take  the  young  ones ;  we  will  not  leave  each 
other.  If  our  heads  fall,  theirs  will  fall  in  the  same 
basket,  and  we  shall  all  take  leave  at  once !  We  will 
not  retreat !  You  are  the  only  coward  in  the  family, 
and  we  drive  you  from  us ! " 

"  But  the  children,  —  the  children ! " 

"  The  children  will  grow  up,  and,  but  for  you,  they 
would  have  been  quite  formed  already.  Francois  is 
almost  ready,  and,  when  you  are  gone,  Amandine  will 
make  up  for  lost  time." 

"  Mother,  I  entreat  of  you,  consent  to  having  the 
children  sent  away  from  here,  and  put  in  apprenticeship 
at  a  distance." 

"  I  tell  you  that  they  are  in  apprenticeship  here  !  " 

The  felon's  widow  uttered  these  last  words  so  immov- 
ably that  Martial  lost  all  hope  of  mollifying  this  soul  of 
bronze. 

"  Since  it  is  so,"  he  replied,  "  hear  me  in  my  turn, 
mother,  —  I  remain ! " 
"Ha!  ha!" 

"  Not  in  this  house.  I  shall  be  assassinated  by  Nicho- 
las, or  poisoned  by  Calabash.  But,  as  I  have  no  means 
of  lodging  elsewhere,  I  and  the  children  will  occupy  the 
hovel  at  the  end  of  the  island ;  the  door  of  that  is 
strong,  and  I  will  make  it  still  more  secure.  Once 
there,  I  will  barricade  myself,  and,  with  my  gun,  my 
stick,  and  my  dog,  I  am  afraid  of  no  one.  To-morrow 
morning  I  will  take  the  children  with  me.  During  the 
day  they  will  be  with  me,  either  in  my  boat  or  else- 
where ;  and,  at  night,  they  shall  sleep  near  me  in  the 
hovel.  We  can  live  on  the  fish  I  catch  until  I  find  some 
means  of  placing  them,  and  find  it  I  will." 

«  Oh  !    That's  it,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Neither  you,  nor  my  brother,  nor  Calabash  can  pre- 
vent this,  can  you  ?  If  your  robberies  and  murders  are 
discovered  during  my  abode  on  the  island,  so  much  the 
worse;  but  I'll  chance  it.    I  will  declare  that  I  came 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


back  and  remained  here  in  consequence  of  the  children, 
to  prevent  them  from  becoming  infamous.  They  will 
decide.  The  children  shall  not  remain  another  day  in 
this  abode ;  and  I  defy  you  and  your  gang  to  drive  me 
from  this  island ! " 

The  widow  knew  Martial's  resolution,  and  the  chil- 
dren, who  loved  their  eldest  brother  as  much  as  they 
feared  her,  would  certainly  follow  him  unhesitatingly 
whenever  and  wherever  he  called  them.  As  to  himself, 
well  armed  and  most  determined,  always  on  his  guard, 
in  his  boat  during  the  day,  and  secure  and  barricaded  in 
the  hovel  on  the  island  at  night,  he  had  nothing  to  fear 
from  the  malevolence  of  his  family. 

Martial's  project,  then,  might  be  realised  in  every 
particular;  but  the  widow  had  many  reasons  for  pre- 
venting its  execution.  In  the  first  place,  as  honest 
work-people  sometimes  consider  the  number  of  their 
children  as  wealth,  in  consequence  of  the  services 
which  they  derive  from  them,  the  widow  relied  on 
Amandine  and  Francois  to  assist  her  in  her  atrocities. 
Then,  what  she  had  said  of  her  desire  to  avenge  her 
husband  and  son  was  true.  Certain  beings,  nurtured, 
matured,  hardened  in  crime,  enter  into  open  revolt,  into 
war  of  extermination,  against  society,  and  believe  that, 
by  fresh  crimes,  they  shall  avenge  themselves  for  the 
just  penalties  which  have  been  exacted  from  them 
and  those  belonging  to  them.  Then,  too,  the  sinister 
designs  of  Nicholas  against  Fleur-de-Marie,  and  after- 
wards against  the  jewel-matcher,  might  be  thwarted  by 
Martial's  presence. 

The  widow  had  hoped  to  effect  an  immediate  separa- 
tion between  herself  and  Martial,  either  by  keeping  up 
and  aiding  Nicholas's  quarrel,  or  by  disclosing  to  him 
that,  if  he  obstinately  persisted  in  remaining  in  the 
island,  he  ran  the  risk  of  being  suspected  as  an  accom- 
plice in  many  crimes. 

As  cunning  as  she  was  penetrating,  the  widow,  per- 
97 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


ceiving  that  she  had  failed,  saw  that  she  must  have 
recourse  to  treachery  to  entrap  her  son  in  her  bloody 
snare,  and  she  therefore  replied,  after  a  lengthened 
pause,  with  assumed  bitterness  : 

"I  see  your  plan.  You  will  not  inform  against  us 
yourself,  but  you  will  contrive  that  the  children  shall 
do  so." 

"  I  ?  " 

"  They  know  now  that  there  is  a  man  buried  here ; 
they  know  that  Nicholas  has  robbed.  Once  apprenticed 
they  would  talk,  we  should  be  apprehended,  and  we 
should  all  suffer,  —  you  with  us.  That  is  what  would 
happen  if  I  listened  to  you,  and  allowed  you  to  place 
the  children  elsewhere.  Yet  you  say  you  do  not  wish 
us  any  harm  ?  I  do  not  ask  you  to  love  me ;  but  do  not 
hasten  the  hour  of  our  apprehension ! " 

The  milder  tone  of  the  widow  made  Martial  believe 
that  his  threats  had  produced  a  salutary  effect  on  her, 
and  he  fell  into  the  fearful  snare. 

"  I  know  the  children,"  he  replied ;  "  and  I  am  sure 
that,  in  desiring  them  to  say  nothing,  not  a  word  will 
they  say.  Besides,  in  one  way  or  another,  I  shall  be 
always  with  them,  and  I  will  answer  for  their  silence." 

"  Can  we  answer  for  the  chatter  of  children,  especially 
in  Paris,  where  people  are  so  curious  and  so  gossiping  ? 
It  is  as  much  that  they  should  not  betray  us,  as  that 
they  should  assist  us  in  our  plans,  that  I  desire  to  keep 
them  here." 

"  Don't  they  go  sometimes  to  the  villages,  and  even  to 
Paris  ?  Who  could  prevent  them  from  talking  if  they 
were  inclined  to  talk  ?  If  they  were  a  long  way  off, 
why,  so  much  the  better ;  for  what  they  would  then  say 
would  do  us  no  harm." 

"  A  long  way  off,  —  and  where  ?  "  inquired  the  widow, 
looking  steadfastly  at  her  son. 

"  Let  me  take  them  away,  —  where  is  no  consequence 
to  you." 


THE  MOTHER  AND  SON. 


"  How  will  you  and  they  live  ?  " 

"  My  old  master,  the  locksmith,  is  a  worthy  man,  and 
I  will  tell  him  as  much  as  he  need  know,  and,  perhaps, 
he  will  lend  me  something  for  the  sake  of  the  children ; 
with  that  I  will  go  and  apprentice  them  a  long  way  off. 
We  will  leave  in  two  days,  and  you  will  hear  no  more 
of  us." 

"  No,  no !  I  prefer  their  remaining  with  me.  I  shall 
then  be  perfectly  sure  of  them." 

"  Then  I  will  take  up  my  quarters  in  the  hovel  on  the 
island  until  something  turns  up.  I  have  a  way  and  a 
will  of  my  own,  and  you  know  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it.  Oh,  how  I  wish  you  were  a  thou- 
sand miles  away !  Why  didn't  you  remain  in  your 
woods  ? " 

"  I  offer  to  rid  you  of  myself  and  the  children." 

"  What !  Would  you  leave  La  Louve  here,  whom  you 
love  so  much  ? "  asked  the  widow,  suddenly. 

<'  That's  my  affair.  I  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  have 
my  plans." 

"  If  I  let  you  take  away  Amandine  and  Frar^ois,  will 
you  never  again  set  foot  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  Before  three  days  have  passed,  we  shall  have  de- 
parted, and  be  as  dead  to  you." 

"  I  prefer  that  to  having  you  here,  and  always  dis- 
trusting you  and  them.  So,  since  I  must  give  way,  take 
them,  and  be  off  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  never  let  me 
see  you  more  !  " 

"  Agreed ! " 

"  Agreed !  Give  me  the  key  of  the  cellar,  that  I  may 
let  Nicholas  out !  " 

"  No ;  let  him  sleep  his  liquor  off,  and  I'll  give  you 
the  key  to-morrow  morning." 

"And  Calabash?" 

"  Ah,  that's  another  affair !    Let  her  out  when  I  have 
gone.    I  can't  bear  the  sight  of  her." 
"  Go,  and  may  hell  confound  you  ! " 

99 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  That's  your  farewell,  mother  ? " 
"  Yes." 

"  Fortunately  your  last !  "  said  Martial. 

"  My  last !  "  responded  the  widow. 

Her  son  lighted  a  candle,  then  opened  the  kitchen 
door,  whistled  to  his  dog,  who  ran  in,  quite  delighted  at 
being  admitted,  and  followed  his  master  to  the  upper 
story  of  the  house. 

"  Go,  —  your  business  is  settled  !  "  muttered  the  widow, 
shaking  her  clenched  hand  at  her  son,  as  he  went  up  the 
stairs ;  "  but  it  is  your  own  act." 

Then,  by  Calabash's  assistance,  who  brought  her  a 
bundle  of  false  keys,  the  widow  unlocked  the  cellar 
door  where  Nicholas  was,  and  set  him  at  liberty. 


100 


CHAPTER  VI. 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 

Francois  and  Amandine  slept  in  a  room  immediately 
over  the  kitchen,  and  at  the  end  of  a  passage  which  com- 
municated with  several  other  apartments  that  were  used 
as  "  company  rooms  "  for  the  guests  who  frequented  the 
cabaret.  After  having  eaten  their  frugal  supper,  in- 
stead of  putting  out  their  lantern,  as  the  widow  had 
ordered  them,  the  two  children  watched,  leaving  their 
door  ajar,  for  their  brother  Martial's  passing  on  his  way 
to  his  own  chamber. 

Placed  on  a  crippled  stool,  the  lantern  shed  its  dull 
beams  through  the  transparent  horn.  Walls  of  plaster, 
with  here  and  there  brown  deal  boards,  a  flock-bed  for 
Francois,  a  little  old  child's  bed,  much  too  short,  for 
Amandine,  a  pile  of  broken  chairs  and  dismembered 
benches,  mementoes  of  the  turbulent  visitors  to  the 
cabaret  of  the  Isle  du  Ravageur, —  such  was  the  interior 
of  this  dog-hole. 

Amandine,  seated  at  the  edge  of  the  bed,  was  trying 
how  to  dress  her  head  en  marmotte,  with  the  stolen  silk 
handkerchief,  the  gift  of  her  brother  Nicholas.  Francois 
was  on  his  knees,  holding  up  a  piece  of  broken  glass  to 
his  sister,  who,  with  her  head  half  turned,  was  employed 
in  spreading  out  the  large  rosette  which  she  had  made 
in  tying  the  two  ends  of  the  kerchief  together.  Wonder- 
struck  at  this  head-dress,  Francois  for  an  instant  neg- 
lected to  present  the  bit  of  glass  in  such  a  way  that  her 
face  could  be  reflected  in  it. 

"  Lift  the  looking-glass  higher,"  said  Amandine ;  "  I 
101 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


can't  see  myself  at  all  now !  There,  that's  it,  —  that'll 
do !  Hold  it  so  a  minute  !  Now  I've  done  it !  Well, 
look  !    How  have  I  done  my  head  ?  " 

"  Oh,  capitally,  —  excellently  !  What  a  handsome 
rosette !  You'll  make  me  just  such  a  one  for  my 
cravat,  won't  you  ? " 

"Yes,  directly.  But  let  me  walk  up  and  down  a 
little.  You  can  go  before  me  —  backwards  —  holding 
the  glass  up,  just  in  that  way.  There  —  so!  I  can 
then  see  myself  as  I  walk." 

Francois  then  went  through  this  difficult  manoeuvre 
to  the  great  satisfaction  of  Amandine,  who  strutted  up 
and  down  in  all  her  pride  and  dignity,  under  the  large 
bow  of  her  head  attire. 

Very  simple  and  unsophisticated  under  any  other  cir- 
cumstances, this  coquetry  became  guilt  when  displayed 
in  reference  to  the  produce  of  a  robbery  of  which  Fran- 
cois and  Amandine  were  not  ignorant.  Another  proof 
of  the  frightful  facility  with  which  children,  however 
well  disposed,  become  corrupted  almost  imperceptibly 
when  they  are  continually  immersed  in  a  criminal 
atmosphere. 

Then,  the  sole  mentor  of  these  unfortunate  children, 
their  brother  Martial,  was  by  no  means  irreproachable 
himself,  as  we  have  already  said.  Incapable,  it  is  true, 
of  a  theft  or  a  murder,  still  he  led  a  vagabond  and  ill- 
regulated  life.  Undoubtedly  his  mind  revolted  at  the 
crimes  of  his  family.  He  loved  these  two  children  very 
fondly,  and  protected  them  from  ill-treatment,  endeav- 
ouring to  withdraw  them  from  the  pernicious  influences 
of  the  family ;  but  not  taking  his  stand  on  the  founda- 
tions of  rigorous  and  sound  morality,  his  advice  was  but 
an  ineffective  safeguard  to  these  children.  They  refused 
to  commit  certain  bad  actions,  not  from  honest  senti- 
ments, but  in  order  to  obey  Martial,  whom  they  loved, 
and  to  disobey  their  mother,  whom  they  dreaded  and 
hated. 


102 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 


As  to  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  they  had  none,  famil- 
iarised as  they  were  with  the  infamous  examples  which 
they  had  every  day  under  their  eyes ;  for,  as  we  have 
said,  this  country  cabaret,  haunted  by  the  refuse  of  the 
lowest  order,  was  the  theatre  of  most  disgraceful  orgies 
and  most  disgusting  debaucheries ;  and  Martial,  opposed 
as  he  was  to  thefts  and  murders,  appeared  perfectly  indif- 
ferent to  these  infamous  saturnalia. 

It  may  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  the  instincts  of 
morality  in  these  children  were  doubtful  and  precarious, 
especially  those  of  Francois,  who  had  reached  that  dan- 
gerous time  of  life  when  the  mind  pauses,  and,  oscillating 
between  good  and  evil,  might  be  in  a  moment  lost  or 
saved. 

"  How  well  you  look  in  that  handkerchief,  sister ! " 
said  Francois ;  "  it  is  very  pretty.  When  we  go  to  play 
on  the  shore  by  the  chalk-burner's  lime-kiln  you  must 
dress  yourself  in  this  manner,  to  make  the  children  jeal- 
ous who  pelt  us  with  stones  and  call  us  little  guillo- 
tines. And  I  shall  put  on  my  nice  red  cravat,  and  we 
*will  say  to  them,  '  Never  mind,  you  haven't  such  pretty 
silk  handkerchiefs  as  we  have  ! '  " 

"  But,  I  say,  Francois,"  said  Amandine,  after  a 
moment's  reflection,  "  if  they  knew  that  the  handker- 
chiefs we  wear  were  stolen,  they  would  call  us  little 
thieves." 

"Well,  and  what  should  we  care  if  they  did  call  us 
little  thieves  ? " 

"  Why,  not  at  all,  if  it  were  not  true.    But  now  —  " 

"  Since  Nicholas  gave  us  these  handkerchiefs,  we 
didn't  steal  them !  " 

"No;  but  he  took  them  out  of  a  barge  ;  and  Brother 
Martial  says  no  one  ought  to  steal." 

"  But,  as  Nicholas  states,  that  is  no  affair  of  ours." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Francois  ? " 

«  Of  course  I  do." 

103 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Still,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  would  rather  the  person 
who  really  owns  them  had  given  them  to  us.  What  do 
you  say,  Francois  ? " 

"  Oh,  it's  all  one  to  me  !  They  were  given  to  us,  and 
so  they're  ours." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes  —  yes ;  make  yourself  easy  about  that." 

"  So  much  the  better,  then,  for  we  are  not  doing  what 
Brother  Martial  forbids,  and  we  have  such  nice  hand- 
kerchiefs ! " 

"  But,  Amandine,  if  he  had  known  the  other  day  that 
Calabash  had  made  you  take  the  plaid  handkerchief 
from  the  peddler's  pack  whilst  his  back  was  turned  ? " 

"  Oh,  Francis,  don't  talk  about  it ;  I  have  been  so 
very  sorry.  But  I  was  really  forced  to  do  it,  for  my 
sister  pinched  me  until  the  blood  came,  and  looked  at 
me  so  —  oh,  in  such  a  way !  And  yet  my  heart  failed 
me  twice,  and  I  thought  I  never  could  do  it.  The  peddler 
didn't  find  it  out ;  yet,  if  they  had  caught  me,  Francois, 
I  should  have  been  sent  to  prison." 

"  But  you  weren't  caught ;  so  it's  just  the  same  as  if 
you  had  not  stolen."  * 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  And  in  prison  how  unhappy  we  must  be." 

"  On  the  contrary  —  " 

"  How  do  you  mean  on  the  contrary  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  know  the  fat  cripple  who  lodges  at  Father 
Micou's,  the  man  who  buys  all  Nicholas's  things,  and 
keeps  a  lodging-house  in  the  Passage  de  la  Brasserie  ?  " 

"A  fat  cripple  ?" 

«  Why,  yes,  who  came  here  the  end  of  last  autumn 
from  Father  Micou,  with  a  man  who  had  monkeys  and 
two  women." 

"  Ah,  yes,  a  stout,  lame  man,  who  spent  such  a  deal 
of  money." 

"  I  believe  you ;  he  paid  for  everybody.    Don't  you 
104 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 


recollect  the  rows  on  the  water  when  I  pulled  them,  and 
the  man  with  the  monkeys  brought  his  organ,  that  they 
might  have  music  in  the  boat  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  in  the  evening  the  beautiful  fireworks 
they  let  off,  Francois  ? " 

"And  the  fat  cripple  was  not  stingy,  either.  He 
gave  me  ten  sous  for  myself.  He  drank  nothing  but 
our  best  wine,  and  they  had  chickens  at  every  meal. 
He  spent  full  eighty  francs." 

"  So  much  as  that,  Francois  ? " 

«  Oh,  yes  !  " 

"  How  rich  he  must  be  !  " 

"  Not  at  all.  What  he  spent  was  money  he  had 
gained  in  prison,  from  which  he  had  just  come." 

"  Gained  all  that  money  in  prison  ? " 

"  Yes ;  he  said  he  had  seven  hundred  francs  beside, 
and  that,  when  that  was  all  gone,  he  should  try  another 
good  '  job ; '  and  if  he  were  taken,  he  didn't  care, 
because  he  should  go  back  to  his  jolly  £  pals  in  the 
Stone  Jug,'  as  he  said." 

"  Then  he  wasn't  afraid  of  prison,  Francois  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary  ;  he  told  Calabash  that  they  were 
a  party  of  friends  and  merrymakers  all  together ;  and 
that  he  had  never  had  a  better  bed  and  better  food  than 
when  he  was  in  prison.  Good  meat  four  times  a  week, 
fire  all  the  winter,  and  a  lump  of  money  when  he  left 
it ;  whilst  there  are  fools  of  honest  workmen  who  are 
starving  with  cold  and  hunger,  for  want  of  work." 

"Are  you  sure  he  said  that,  Fran§ois,  —  the  stout 
lame  man  ?  " 

"  I  heard  him,  for  I  was  rowing  him  in  the  punt 
whilst  he  told  his  story  to  Calabash  and  the  two  women, 
who  said  that  it  was  the  same  thing  in  the  female 
prisons  they  had  just  left." 

"  But  then,  Francois,  it  can't  be  so  bad  to  steal,  if 
people  are  so  well  off  in  prison." 

"  Oh,  the  deuce !  I  don't  know.  Here  it  is  only 
105 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Brother  Martial  who  says  it  is  wrong  to  steal ;  perhaps 
he  is  wrong." 

"  Never  mind  if  he  is,  Francois.  We  ought  to  believe 
him,  for  he  loves  us  so  much !  " 

"  Yes,  he  loves  us ;  and,  when  he  is  by,  there  is  no 
fear  of  our  being  beaten.  If  he  had  been  here  this 
evening,  our  mother  would  not  have  thrashed  me  so. 
An  old  beast !  How  savage  she  is !  Oh,  how  I  hate 
her  —  hate  her !  And  how  I  wish  I  was  grown  up,  that 
I  might  pay  her  back  the  thumps  she  gives  us,  especially 
to  you,  who  can't  bear  them  as  well  as  I  can." 

"  Oh,  Francois,  hold  your  tongue ;  it  quite  frightens 
me  to  hear  you  say  that  you  would  beat  mother!" 
cried  the  poor  little  child,  weeping,  and  throwing 
her  arms  around  her  brother's  neck,  and  kissing  him 
affectionately. 

"  It's  quite  true,  though,"  answered  Francois,  extri- 
cating himself  gently  from  Amandine.  "  Why  are  my 
mother  and  Calabash  always  so  savage  to  us  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Amandine,  wiping  her  eyes 
with  the  back  of  her  hand.  "  It  is,  perhaps,  because 
they  sent  Brother  Ambroise  to  the  galleys,  and  guillo- 
tined our  father,  that  they  are  unjust  towards  us." 

"  Is  that  our  fault  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  !    But  what  would  you  have  ?  " 

"  Ma  foil  If  I  am  always  to  have  beatings, —  always, 
always,  at  last  I  should  rather  steal,  as  they  do,  I  should. 
What  do  I  gain  by  not  being  a  thief  ?  " 

"  Ah,  what  would  Martial  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  Ah,  but  for  him,  I  should  have  said  yes  a  long  time 
ago,  for  I  am  tired  of  being  thumped  for  ever ;  why,  this 
evening,  my  mother  was  more  savage  than  ever ;  she 
was  like  a  fury  !  It  was  pitch  dark.  She  didn't  say 
a  word ;  and  I  felt  nothing  but  her  clammy  hand  hold- 
ing me  by  the  scruff  of  my  neck,  whilst  with  the  other 
she  beat  me ;  and  whilst  she  did  so,  her  eyes  seemed  to 
glare  in  the  dark." 

106 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 


"  Poor  Francois  !  for  only  having  said  you  saw  a  dead 
man's  bone  by  the  wood-pile." 

"  Yes,  a  foot  that  was  sticking  out  of  the  ground," 
said  Franc,ois,  shuddering  with  fright ;  "  I  am  quite 
sure  of  it." 

"  Perhaps  there  was  a  burying-ground  there  once." 

"  Perhaps ;  but  then,  why  did  mother  say  she'd  be 
the  death  of  me,  if  I  said  a  word  about  the  bone  to  our 
Brother  Martial  ?  I  rather  think  it  is  some  one  who 
has  been  killed  in  a  quarrel,  and  that  they  have  buried 
him  there,  that  no  one  might  know  anything  about  it." 

"  You  are  right ;  for  don't  you  remember  that  such  a 
thing  did  nearly  happen  once  ?  " 

"When?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  once  when  M.  Barbillon 
wounded  with  a  knife  that  tall  man,  who  is  so  very 
thin,  that  he  showed  himself  for  money  ? " 

"  Oh,  the  walking  skeleton,  as  they  call  him  ?  Yes ; 
and  mother  came  and  separated  them ;  if  she  hadn't,  I 
thinK  Barbillon  would  have  killed  the  tall,  thin  man. 
Did  you  see  how  Barbillon  foamed  at  the  mouth  ?  and 
his  eyes  seemed  ready  to  start  from  his  head.  Oh,  he 
does  not  mind  who  he  cuts  and  slashes  with  his  knife, 
—  he's  such  a  headstrong,  passionate  fellow !  " 

"  So  young  and  so  wicked,  Francois  ?  " 

"  Tortillard  is  much  younger,  and  he  would  be  quite 
as  wicked  as  he,  if  he  were  strong  enough." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he's  very,  very  wicked !  The  other  day  he 
beat  me,  because  I  would  not  play  with  him." 

"  He  beat  you,  did  he  ?  Then,  the  first  time  he 
comes  —  " 

"  No,  no,  Francois ;  it  was  only  in  jest." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes,  quite  sure." 

"Very  well,  then,  for,  if  not —    But  I  don't  know 
how  he  manages,  the  scamp !    But  he  always  has  so 
much  money.    He's  so  lucky  !    When  he  came  here 
107 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


with  the  Chouette,  he  showed  us  pieces  of  gold  of 
twenty  francs ;  and  didn't  he  look  knowing  as  he  said, 
'  Oh,  you  might  have  the  same,  if  you  were  not  such 
little  muffs ! "' 
"Muffs?" 

"  Yes ;  in  slang  that  means  fools,  simpletons." 
"  Yes,  to  be  sure." 

"  Forty  francs  in  gold !     What  a  many  fine  things  I 
could  buy  with  that !    Couldn't  you,  Amandine  ? " 
«  That  I  could." 
"  What  should  you  buy  ? " 

"  Let's  see,"  said  the  little  girl,  bending  her  head,  and 
meditating.  "  I  should  first  buy  Brother  Martial  a  good 
thick  outside  coat,  that  would  keep  him  warm  in  his 
boat." 

"  But  for  yourself, —  for  yourself." 

"  I  should  like  a  crucifixion,  like  those  image-sellers 
had  on  Sunday,  you  know,  under  the  church  porch  at 
Asnieres." 

"  Yes ;  and,  now  I  think  of  it,  we  must  not  tell 
mother  or  Calabash  that  we  went  into  a  church." 

"  To  be  sure,  for  she  has  always  forbidden  us  to  go 
into  a  church.  What  a  pity !  For  church  is  such 
a  nice  place  inside,  isn't  it,  Francois  ? " 

"  Yes ;  and  what  beautiful  silver  candlesticks  !  " 

"  And  the  picture  of  the  holy  Virgin,  how  kind  she 
looks!" 

"  And  did  you  look  at  the  fine  lamps,  and  the  hand- 
some cloth  on  the  large  table  at  the  bottom,  when  the 
priest  was  saying  mass  with  his  two  friends,  dressed  like 
himself,  and  who  gave  him  water  and  wine  ?" 

"  Tell  me,  Francis,  do  you  remember  last  year,  at 
the  Fete-Dieu,  when  we  saw  from  here  the  little  com- 
municants, with  their  white  veils,  pass  over  the  bridge  ? " 

"  What  nice  nosegays  they  had  !  " 

"  How  they  sang  in  a  soft  tone,  holding  the  ribands 
of  their  banners  ! " 

108 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 


"  And  how  the  silver  lace  of  their  banners  shone  in 
the  sunshine  !  What  a  deal  of  money  it  must  have 
cost ! " 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  was !    Wasn't  it,  Francois  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you !  And  the  communicants  with  their 
bows  of  white  satin  on  the  arm,  and  their  wax  candles, 
with  red  velvet  and  gold  on  the  part  by  which  they  hold 
them." 

"And  the  little  boys  had  their  banners,  too,  hadn't 
they,  Francois  ?  Ah,  Fran§ois,  how  I  was  thumped 
that  day  for  asking  our  mother  why  we  did  not  go  in 
the  procession,  like  the  other  children !  " 

"  And  it  was  then  she  forbade  us  from  ever  going  into 
a  church  when  we  should  go  into  the  town,  or  to  Paris  ; 
'  Unless  it  was  to  rob  the  poor-box,  or  the  pockets  of 
the  people  who  were  hearing  mass,'  Calabash  said,  grin- 
ning, and  showing  her  nasty  yellow  teeth.  Oh,  what  a 
bad  thing  she  is  !  " 

"  Oh,  ar^  as  for  that,  they  should  kill  me  before 
I  would  rob  in  a  church ;  and  you,  too,  Frangois  ? " 

"  There,  or  anywhere ;  what  difference  does  it  make, 
when  once  one  has  made  up  one's  mind  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  should  be  so  frightened, 
I  could  never  do  it." 

"  Because  of  the  priests  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  because  of  the  portrait  of  the  holy  Virgin, 
who  seems  so  kind  and  good." 

"  What  consequence  is  a  portrait  ?  '  It  won't  eat  or 
drink,  you  silly  child  !  " 

"  That's  very  true ;  but  then  I  really  couldn't.  It  is 
not  my  fault." 

"  Talking  of  priests,  Amandine,  do  you  remember 
that  day  when  Nicholas  gave  me  two  such  hard  boxes 
on  the  ear,  because  he  saw  me  make  a  bow  to  the 
curate,  who  passed  on  the  bank  ?  I  had  seen  every- 
body salute  him,  and  so  I  saluted  him  ;  I  didn't  think 
I  was  doing  any  wrong." 

109 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Yes ;  but  then,  you  know,  Brother  Martial  said,  as 
Nicholas  did,  that  there  was  no  occasion  to  salute  the 
priests." 

At  this  moment  Francois  and  Amandine  heard  foot- 
steps in  the  passage.  Martial  was  going  to  his  chamber, 
without  any  mistrust,  after  his  conversation  with  his 
mother,  believing  that  Nicholas  was  safely  locked  up 
until  the  next  morning.  Seeing  a  ray  of  light  coming 
from  out  the  closet  in  which  the  children  slept,  Mar- 
tial came  into  the  room.  They  both  ran  to  him,  and 
he  embraced  them  affectionately. 

"  What !   Not  in  bed  yet,  little  gossips  ?  " 

"  No,  brother,  we  waited  until  you  came,  that  we 
might  see  you,  and  wish  you  good  night,"  said  Aman- 
dine. 

"  And  then  we  heard  you  speaking  very  loud  below, 
as  if  there  were  a  quarrel,"  added  Frangois. 

"  Yes,"  said  Martial,  "  I  had  some  dispute  with  Nich- 
olas, but  it"  was  nothing.  Besides,  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
awake,  as  I  have  some  good  news  for  you." 

"  For  us,  brother  ?  " 

"  Should  you  like  to  go  away  from  here,  and  come 
with  me  a  long  way  off  ? " 
«  Oh,  yes,  brother ! " 
«  Yes,  brother !  " 

"  Well,  then,  in  two  or  three  days  we  shall  all  three 
leave  the  island." 

"  Oh,  how  delightful !  "  exclaimed  Amandine,  clapping 
her  hands  with  joy. 

"  And  where  shall  we  go  to  ? "  inquired  Francois. 

"  You  will  see,  Mr.  Inquisitive  ;  no  matter ;  but  where 
you  will  learn  a  good  trade,  which  will  enable  you  to 
earn  your  living,  be  sure  of  that." 

"  Then  I  sha'n't  go  fishing  with  you  any  more, 
brother?" 

"  No,  my  boy,  you  will  be  put  apprentice  to  a  carpen- 
ter or  locksmith.    You  are  strong  and  handy,  and  with 
110 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 


a  good  heart. ;  and  working  hard,  at  the  end  of  a  year 
you  may  already  have  earned  something.  But  you  don't 
seem  to  like  it :  why,  what  ails  you  now  ? " 

"  Why,  brother,  —  I  —  " 

"  Come,  come !    Speak  out." 

"  Why,  I'd  rather  not  leave  you,  but  stay  with  you, 
and  fish,  and  mend  your  nets,  than  go  and  learn  a 
trade." 

«  Really?" 

"Why,  to  be  shut  up  in  a  workshop  all  day  is  so 
very  dull ;  and  then  it  must  be  so  tiresome  to  be  an 
apprentice." 

Martial  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  So,  then,  you  would  rather  be  an  idler,  a  scamp,  a 
vagabond,  —  eh  ? "  said  he,  in  a  stern  voice  ;  "  and  then, 
perhaps,  a  thief  ?  " 

"  No,  brother ;  but  I  should  like  to  live  with  you 
elsewhere,  as  we  live  here,  that's  all." 

"  Yes,  thatfo  it ;  eat,  drink,  sleep,  and  amuse  yourself 
with  fishing,  like  an  independent  gentleman,  —  eh  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  it." 

"  Very  likely ;  but  you  must  prefer  something  else. 
You  see,  my  poor  dear  lad,  that  it  is  quite  time  I  took 
you  away  from  here ;  for,  without  perceiving  it,  you 
have  become  as  idle  as  the  rest.  My  mother  was  right, 
—  I  fear  you  have  vice  in  you.  And  you,  Amandine, 
shouldn't  you  like  to  learn  some  business?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  brother ;  I  should  like  very  much  to  learn 
anything  rather  than  stay  here.  I  should  dearly  like  to 
go  with  you  and  Francois." 

"  But  what  have  you  got  on  your  head,  my  child  ?  " 
inquired  Martial,  observing  Amandine's  very  fine  head- 
dress. 

"  A  handkerchief  that  Nicholas  gave  me." 
"And  he  gave  me  one,  too,"  said  Frangois,  with  an 
air  of  pride. 

"  And  where  did  these  handkerchiefs  come  from  ?  I 
111 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

should  be  very  much  surprised  to  learn  that  Nicholas 
bought  them  to  make  you  a  present  of." 

The  two  children  lowered  their  eyes,  and  made  no 
reply.  After  a  second,  Francois  said,  with  a  resolute 
air,  "  Nicholas  gave  them  to  us.  We  do  not  know  where 
they  came  from,  do  we,  Amandine  ? " 

"  No,  no,  brother,"  replied  Amandine,  stammering, 
and  turning  very  red,  not  daring  to  look  Martial  in  the 
face. 

"  Don't  tell  lies,"  said  Martial,  harshly. 
"  We  don't  tell  lies,"  replied  Francois,  doggedly. 
"  Amandine,  my  child,  tell  the  truth,"  said  Martial, 
mildly. 

"  Well,  then,  to  tell  the  whole  truth,"  replied  Aman- 
dine, timidly,  "  these  fine  handkerchiefs  came  out  of  a 
box  of  things  that  Nicholas  brought  in  this  evening  in 
his  boat." 

"  And  which  he  had  stolen  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  brother,  —  out  of  a  barge." 

"  So  then,  Francois,  you  lie  ?  "  said  Martial. 

The  boy  bent  down  his  head,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Give  me  this  handkerchief,  Amandine ;  and  yours, 
too,  Francois." 

The  little  girl  took  off  her  head-dress,  gave  a  last  look 
at  the  large  bow,  which  was  not  untied,  and  gave  the 
handkerchief  to  Martial,  repressing  a  sigh  of  regret. 
Francois  drew  his  slowly  out  of  his  pocket,  and  then 
gave  it  to  his  brother,  as  his  sister  had  done. 

"  To-morrow  morning,"  he  said,  "  I  will  return  these 
handkerchiefs  to  Nicholas.  You  ought  not  to  have  taken 
them,  children.  To  profit  by  a  robbery  is  as  if  one  robbed 
oneself." 

"It  is  a  pity  those  handkerchiefs  were  so  pretty ! " 
said  Francois. 

"  When  you  have  learned  a  trade,  and  earn  money  by 
your  work,  you  will  buy  some  as  good.  Go  to  bed,  my 
dears,  —  it  is  very  late." 

112 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 


"  You  are  not  angry,  brother  ? "  said  Amandine, 
timidly. 

"  No,  no,  my  love,  it  is  not  your  fault.  You  live  with 
ill-disposed  persons,  and  you  do  as  they  do  unconsciously. 
When  you  are  with  honest  persons,  you  will  do  as  they 
do ;  and  you'll  soon  be  with  such,  or  the  devil's  in  it. 
So  now,  good  night !  " 

«  Good  night,  brother  ! " 

Martial  kissed  the  children.    They  were  now  alone. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Frangois, —  you  seem 
very  sorrowful !  "  said  Amandine. 

"  Why,  brother  has  taken  my  nice  handkerchief ;  and 
besides,  didn't  you  hear  what  he  said  ? " 

«  What?" 

"  He  means  to  take  us  with  him,  and  put  us 
apprentice." 

"  And  ain't  you  glad  ? " 
"Mafoi,  no!" 

"  Would  you  rather  stay  here  and  be  beaten  every 
day?" 

"  Why,  if  I  am  beaten  I  am  not  made  to  work.  I  am 
all  day  in  the  boat,  fishing,  or  playing,  or  waiting  on  the 
customers,  who  sometimes  give  me  something,  as  the  stout 
lame  man  did.  It  is  much  more  amusing  than  to  be 
from  morning  till  night  shut  up  in  a  workshop  working 
like  a  dog." 

"  But  didn't  you  understand  ?  Why,  brother  said  that 
if  we  remained  here  longer  we  should  become  evil- 
disposed." 

"  Ah !  bah !  That's  all  one  to  me,  since  the  other 
children  call  us  already  little  thieves,  —  little  guillotines  ! 
And  then  to  work  is  too  tiresome  ! " 

"  But  here  they  are  always  beating  us,  brother  !  " 

"  They  beat  us  because  we  listen  to  Martial  more  than 
to  any  one  else." 

"  Oh,  he  is  so  kind  to  us  !" 

"  Yes,  he  is  kind,  —  very  kind,  —  I  don't  say  he  ain't ; 
113 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


and  I  am  very  fond  of  him.  No  one  dares  to  be  unkind 
to  us  when  he  is  by.  He  takes  us  out  with  him,  — 
that's  true  ;  but  that's  all ;  he  never  gives  us  anything." 

"  Why,  he  has  nothing.  What  he  gains  he  gives  our 
mother  to  pay  for  his  eating,  drinking,  and  lodging." 

"  Nicholas  has  something.  You  may  be  sure  if  we 
attend  to  what  he  and  mother  say,  they  would  not  make 
our  lives  so  uncomfortable,  but  give  us  pretty  things,  as 
they  did  to-day.  They  would  not  distrust  us,  and  we 
should  have  money  like  Tortillard." 

"  But  we  must  steal  for  that ;  and  how  that  would 
grieve  dear,  good  Martial ! " 

"  Well,  so  much  the  worse!  " 

"  Oh,  Francis !  And  then  we  should  be  taken  up  and 
put  into  prison." 

"  To  be  in  a  prison  or  shut  up  in  a  workshop  all  day  is 
the  same  thing.  Besides,  the  Gros-Boiteux  says  they 
amuse  themselves  very  much  in  prison." 

"  But  how  sorry  Martial  would  be  ;  only  think  of  that ! 
And  then  it  is  on  our  account  that  he  returned  here,  and 
remains  with  us  !  For  himself  only  he  would  not  have 
any  difficulty,  but  could  go  again  and  be  a  poacher  in 
the  woods  which  he  is  so  very  fond  of." 

"  Oh,  if  he'll  take  us  with  him  into  the  woods,"  said 
Francis,  "  that  would  be  better  than  anything  else.  I 
should  be  with  him  I  am  so  fond  of,  and  should  not 
work  at  any  business  that  would  tire  me." 

The  conversation  of  Francois  and  Amandine  was 
interrupted.  Some  one  outside  double-locked  their 
door. 

"  They  have  fastened  us  in,"  said  Francois. 
"  Oh,  what  can  it  be  for,  brother  ?    What  are  they 
going  to  do  to  us  ? " 
"  It  is  Martial,  perhaps." 

"  Listen,  listen,  —  how  his  dog  barks  !  "  said  Aman- 
dine, listening. 

After  a  few  minutes,  Francois  added  : 
1H 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 


"  It  sounds  as  if  some  one  were  knocking  at  his  door 
with  a  hammer.    Perhaps  they  want  to  force  it  open  !  " 

"  Yes ;  but  how  the  dog  barks  still !  " 

"Listen,  Francois!  It  is  as  if  they  were  nailing 
something.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  how  frightened  I  am ! 
What  are  they  doing  to  our  brother  ?  And  how  the  dog 
howls  still!" 

"  Amandine,  I  hear  nothing  now,"  said  Francois, 
going  towards  the  door. 

The  two  children  held  their  breath,  and  listened 
anxiously. 

"They  are  coming  from  my  brother's  room,"  said 
Francois,  in  a  low  voice ;  "  I  hear  them  walking  in  the 
passage." 

"  Let  us  throw  ourselves  on  our  beds ;  mother  would 
kill  us  if  she  found  us  out  of  bed,"  said  Amandine, 
terrified. 

"  No,"  said  Francois,  still  listening ;  "  they  have  just 
passed  by  our  door,  and  are  running  down  the  stair- 
case." 

"  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  what  can  it  be  ? " 

"  Ah,  now  they  are  opening  the  kitchen  door." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  know  the  sound." 

"Martial's  dog  is  still  howling,"  said  Amandine, 
listening.  Suddenly  she  exclaimed,  "Francois,  our 
brother  calls  us." 

"  Martial?" 

"  Yes ;  don't  you  hear  him  ?  Don't  you  hear  him 
now?" 

And  at  this  moment,  in  spite  of  the  thickness  of  the 
two  closed  doors,  the  powerful  voice  of  Martial,  who 
called  to  the  children  from  his  room,  reached  them. 

"  Indeed,  we  can't  go  to  him  ;  we  are  locked  in,"  said 
Amandine.  "  They  must  be  doing  something  wrong  to 
him,  as  he  calls  us." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  if  I  could  hinder  them,"  exclaimed 
115 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Francois,  resolutely, "  I  would,  even  if  they  were  to  cut 
me  to  pieces  !  " 

"  But  our  brother  does  not  know  that  they  have 
double-locked  our  door,  and  he  will  believe  that  we 
would  not  go  to  his  help.  Call  out  to  him  that  we  are 
locked  in,  Francois." 

The  lad  was  just  going  to  do  as  his  sister  bade  him, 
when  a  violent  blow  was  struck  outside  the  shutter  of 
the  window  of  the  room  in  which  the  two  children  were. 

"  They  are  coming  in  by  the  window  to  kill  us ! " 
cried  Amandine,  and,  in  her  fright,  she  threw  herself 
on  her  bed  and  hid  her  head  between  her  hands. 

Francois  remained  motionless,  although  he  shared  his 
sister's  terror.  However,  after  the  violent  blow  we  have 
mentioned,  the  shutter  was  not  opened,  and  the  most 
profound  silence  reigned  throughout  the  house.  Martial 
had  ceased  calling  to  the  children. 

A  little  assured,  and  excited  by  intense  curiosity, 
Francois  ventured  to  open  the  window  a  little  way,  and 
tried  to  look  out  through  the  leaves  of  the  blind. 

"  Mind,  brother !  "  said  Amandine,  in  a  low  voice, 
and  sitting  up  when  she  heard  Francois  open  the 
shutter. 

"  Can  you  see  anything  ?  "  she  added. 

"  No,  the  night  is  too  dark." 

"  Don't  you  hear  anything  ?  " 

"  No,  the  wind  is  too  high." 

"  Come  in,  then ;  come  in." 

"  Oh,  now  I  see  something !  " 

"What?" 

"  The  light  of  a  lantern,  which  moves  backwards  and 
forwards." 

"  Who's  carrying  it  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  see  the  light.    Ah,  she  comes  nearer,  — 
she  is  speaking  !  " 
"  Who  ?  " 

"  Listen,  —  listen !    It  is  Calabash." 

116 


FRANCOIS  AND  AMANDINE. 


«  What  does  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  says  the  ladder  must  be  fixed  securely." 

"  Oh,  it  was  then  in  taking  away  the  high  ladder  that 
was  placed  against  our  shutter  that  they  made  that  noise 
just  now." 

"  I  don't  hear  anything  now." 

"  What  have  they  done  with  the  ladder  ?  " 

"  I  can't  see  it  now." 

"  Can  you  hear  anything  ? " 

«No." 

"  Frangois,  perhaps  they  are  going  to  use  it  to  enter 
our  Brother  Martial's  room  by  the  window ! " 
«  Very  likely." 

"If  you  could  open  our  window  a  little  more  you 
might  see." 

"  I  am  afraid." 

"  Only  a  little  bit." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !    If  mother  saw  us !  " 

"  It  is  so  dark,  there  is  no  danger." 

Francois,  much  against  his  will,  did  as  his  sister 
requested,  and  pushing  the  shutter  back,  looked 
out. 

"  Well,  brother  ?  "  said  Amandine,  surmounting  her 
fears,  and  approaching  Francois  on  tiptoe. 

"  By  the  gleam  of  the  lantern,"  said  he,  "  I  see 
Calabash,  who  is  holding  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  which 
is  resting  against  Martial's  window." 

«  Well  ?  " 

"  Nicholas  is  going  up  the  ladder  with  his  axe  in  his 
hand.    I  see  it  glitter." 

"  Ah,  you  are  not  in  bed,  then,  but  watching  us ! " 
exclaimed  the  widow,  addressing  Francois  and  his 
sister  from  outside.  As  she  was  returning  to  the 
kitchen  she  saw  the  light,  which  escaped  through  the 
open  window. 

The  unfortunate  children  had  neglected  putting  out 
the  lantern. 

117 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  am  coming,"  added  the  widow,  in  a  terrible  voice ; 
"  I  am  coming  to  you,  you  little  spies  ! " 

Such  were  the  events  which  passed  in  the  Isle  du 
Ravageur  on  the  evening  of  the  day  before  that  on 
which  Madame  Se'raphin  was  to  take  Fleur-de-Marie 
thither. 


118 


CHAPTER  VII. 


A  LODGING  -  HOUSE. 

The  Passage  de  la  Brasserie,  a  dark  street,  narrow, 
and  but  little  known,  although  situated  in  the  centre  of 
Paris,  runs  at  one  end  into  the  Rue  Traversi&re  St. 
Honore*,  and  at  the  other  into  the  Cour  St.  Guillaume. 

Towards  the  middle  of  this  damp  thoroughfare,  muddy, 
dark,  and  unwholesome,  and  where  the  sun  but  rarely 
penetrates,  there  was  a  furnished  house  (commonly 
called  a  garni,  lodging-house,  in  consequence  of  the  low 
price  of  the  apartments).  On  a  miserable  piece  of  paper 
might  be  read,  "  Chambers  and  small  rooms  furnished." 
To  the  right  hand,  in  a  dark  alley,  was  the  door  of  a 
store,  not  less  obscure,  in  which  constantly  resided  the 
principal  tenant  of  this  garni. 

Father  Micou  was  ostensibly  a  dealer  in  old  metal 
("  marine  stores"),  but  secretly  purchased  and  received 
stolen  metal,  iron,  lead,  brass,  and  tin.  When  we  men- 
tion that  Father  Micou  was  connected  in  business  and 
friendship  with  the  Martial  family,  we  give  a  tolerable 
idea  of  his  morality.  The  tie  that  binds  —  the  sort  of 
affiliation,  the  mysterious  communion,  which  connects 
—  the  malefactors  of  Paris,  is  at  once  curious  and 
fearful.  The  common  prisons  are  the  great  centres 
whence  flow,  and  to  which  reflow,  incessantly  those 
waves  of  corruption  which  gradually  gain  on  the  capital, 
and  leave  there  such  pernicious  waifs  and  strays. 

Father  Micou  was  a  stout  man,  about  fifty  years  of 
age,  with  a  mean  and  cunning  countenance,  a  mulberry 
119 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


nose,  and  wine-flushed  cheeks.  He  wore  a  fur  cap  and 
an  old  green  long-skirted  coat.  Over  his  small  stove, 
near  which  he  was  standing,  there  was  a  board  fastened 
to  the  wall,  and  bearing  a  row  of  figures,  to  which  were 
affixed  the  keys  of  the  chambers  of  the  absent  lodgers. 
The  panes  of  glass  in  the  door  which  opened  on  to  the 
street  were  so  painted  that  from  the  outside  no  one 
could  see  what  was  going  on  within. 

The  whole  of  this  extensive  store  was  very  dark. 
From  the  damp  walls  there  hung  rusty  chains  of  all 
sizes ;  and  the  floor  was  strewed  with  iron  and  other 
metals.  Three  blows  struck  at  the  door  in  a  particular 
way  attracted  the  attention  of  the  landlord,  huckster, 
receiver. 

"  Come  in !  "  he  cried. 

It  was  Nicholas,  the  son  of  the  felon's  widow.  He 
was  very  pale,  his  features  looked  even  more  evil  than 
they  did  on  the  previous  evening,  and  yet  he  feigned  a 
kind  of  overgaiety  during  the  following  conversation. 
(This  scene  takes  place  on  the  day  after  his  quarrel  with 
Martial.) 

"  Ah,  is  it  you,  my  fine  fellow  ?  "  said  Micou,  cordially. 
"  Yes,  Father  Micou,  I  have  come  to  see  you  on  a 
trifle  of  business." 

"  Then  shut  the  door,  —  shut  the  door." 
"  My  dog  and  cart  are  there  outside  with  the  stuff." 
"What  do  you  bring  me,  double  tripe  (sheet  lead)  ?" 
"  No,  Father  Micou." 

"  What  is  it,  scrapings  ?  but  no,  you're  too  downy 
now,  you've  left  off  work.  Perhaps  it  is  a  bit  of  hard 
(iron)  ? " 

"  No,  Daddy  Micou,  it's  some  flap  (sheet  copper). 
There  must  be,  at  least,  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
weight,  as  much  as  my  dog  could  stagger  along  with." 

"  Go  and  fetch  the  flap,  and  let's  weigh  it." 

"  You  must  lend  a  hand,  daddy,  for  I've  hurt  my 
arm." 

120 


A  LODGING  -  HOUSE. 


And,  at  the  recollection  of  his  contest  with  his  brother 
Martial,  the  ruffian's  features  expressed,  at  once,  the 
resentment  of  hatred  and  savage  joy,  as  if  his  vengeance 
were  already  satisfied. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  arm,  my  man?" 

"  Nothing,  —  only  a  sprain." 

"  You  must  heat  an  iron  in  the  fire,  and  plunge  it  red- 
hot  into  the  water,  then  put  your  arm  in  the  water  as 
hot  as  you  can  bear  it.  It  is  an  iron-dealer's  remedy, 
but  none  the  worse  for  that." 

"  Thank  ye,  Father  Micou." 

"  Go  and  fetch  the  flap,  and  I'll  come  and  help  you, 
idle-bones." 

At  twice  the  copper  was  brought  out  of  the  cart, 
drawn  by  an  enormous  dog,  and  conveyed  into  the  shop. 

"  That  cart  of  yours  is  a  good  idea,"  said  the  worthy 
Micou,  as  he  adjusted  the  wooden  frames  of  an  enormous 
pair  of  scales  that  hung  from  a  beam  in  the  ceiling. 

"  Yes ;  when  I've  anything  to  bring,  I  put  my  dog 
and  cart  into  the  punt,  and  harness  them  as  we  come 
along.  A  hackney-coach  might,  perhaps,  tell  a  tale,  but 
my  dog  never  chatters." 

"  And  they're  all  pretty  well  at  home,  —  eh  ?  "  inquired 
the  receiver,  weighing  the  copper ;  "  mother  and  sister, 
both  pretty  bobbish  ?  " 

«  Yes,  Father  Micou." 

"  And  the  little  uns?" 

"  Yes,  the  little  uns,  too.  And  your  nephew,  Andr6, 
where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Don't  mention  him ;  he  was  out  on  a  spree  yesterday. 
Barbillon  and  Gros-Boiteux  brought  him  back  this  morn- 
ing. He  is  out  for  a  walk  now  towards  the  General 
Post-office  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques  Rousseau.  And 
your  brother,  Martial,  is  he  just  such  a  rum  un  as  ever  ?  " 

"Ma  foil    I  don't  know." 

«  Don't  know  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Nicholas,  assuming  an  indifferent  air ; 
12] 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"we  have  seen  nothing  of  him  for  the  last  two  days. 
Perhaps  he's  gone  poaching  in  the  woods  again ;  unless 
his  boat,  which  was  very,  very  old,  has  sunk  in  the  river, 
with  him  in  it." 

"  At  which  you  would  not  be  dreadfully  affected,  you 
bad  lot,  for  you  can't  bear  your  brother,  I  know." 

"  True ;  we  have  strange  likes  and  dislikes.  How 
many  pounds  of  metal  d'ye  make  ?  " 

"You're  right  to  a  hair,  just  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  my  lad." 

"  And  you  owe  me  —  " 

"  Just  thirty  francs." 

"  Thirty  francs !  when  copper  is  twenty  sous  a  pound  ? 
Thirty  francs ! " 

"  Say  thirty-five  francs,  and  there's  an  end  of  the 
matter,  or  go  to  the  devil  with  you !  you,  and  your 
copper,  and  your  dog,  and  your  cart." 

"  But,  Father  Micou,  you  are  really  chiselling  me  down  ; 
that's  not  the  right  thing  by  no  means." 

"  If  you'll  tell  me  how  you  came  by  your  copper,  I'll 
give  you  fifteen  sous  a  pound  for  it." 

"  That's  the  old  strain.  You  are  all  alike,  a  regular 
lot  of  cheats.  How  can  you  bear  to  '  do '  your  friends  in 
this  way  ?  But  that's  not  all ;  if  I  swap  with  you  for 
some  things,  you  ought  to  give  me  good  measure." 

"  To  a  hair's  turn.  What  do  you  want  ?  Chains  and 
hooks  for  your  punts  ?  " 

"  No,  I  want  four  or  five  sheets  of  stout  iron,  as  if  to 
line  shutters  with." 

"  I've  just  the  thing,  a  quarter  of  an  inch  thick ;  a 
pistol-ball  wouldn't  go  through  it." 

"  Just  what  I  want." 

"What  size?" 

"  Why,  altogether  about  seven  or  eight  feet  square." 
"  Good,  and  what  else  ?  " 

"  Three  bars  of  iron,  from  three  to  four  feet  long,  and 
two  inches  square." 

%  122 


A  LODGING-HOUSE. 


"  I  have  just  broken  up  an  iron  wicket ;  nothing  can 
be  better  for  you.    What  next  ? " 

"  Two  strong  hinges  and  a  latch,  so  that  I  can  open 
or  shut  an  opening  two  feet  square  when  I  wish." 

"  A  trap,  you  mean  ? " 

"  No,  a  valve." 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  can  want  with  a 
valve." 

"  Never  you  mind ;  I  know  what  I  want." 
"That's  all  right;  you  have  only  to  choose;  there's 
a  heap  of  hinges.    What's  the  next  thing  ? " 
«  That's  all." 
"  And  not  much,  either." 

"  Get  it  all  ready,  Father  Micou,  and  I'll  take  it  as 
I  come  back ;  for  I've  got  some  other  places  to  call 
at." 

"With  your  cart?  Why,  you  dog,  I  saw  a  bundle 
underneath.  What,  some  little  trifle  you  have  taken 
from  the  world's  wardrobe  ?    Ah,  you  sly  rogue  !  " 

"  Just  as  you  say,  Father  Micou ;  but  you  don't 
deal  in  such  things.  Don't  keep  me  waiting  for  the 
iron  goods,  for  I  must  be  back  at  the  island  before 
noon." 

"  I'll  be  ready.  It  is  only  eight,  and,  if  you  are  not 
going  far,  come  back  in  an  hour,  and  you  shall  find 
everything  prepared,  —  money  and  goods.  Won't  you 
take  a  drain?" 

"  Thank  ye,  I  won't  say  no,  for  I  think  you  owe  it 
me." 

Father  Micou  took  from  an  old  closet  a  bottle  of 
brandy,  a  cracked  glass,  and  a  cup  without  a  handle, 
and  filled  them. 

"  Here's  to  you,  Daddy  Micou ! " 

"And  to  you  likewise,  my  boy,  and  the  ladies  at 
home!" 

"Thank  ye.  And  the  lodging-house  goes  on  well, 
eh?" 

123 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"Middling,  —  middling.  I  have  always  some  lodgers 
for  whom  I  am  always  fearing  a  visit  from  the  commis- 
sary ;  but  they  pay  in  proportion." 

"  How  d'ye  mean  ? " 

"  Why,  are  you  stupid  ?  I  sometimes  lodge  as  I  buy, 
and  don't  ask  them  for  their  passport,  any  more  than  I 
ask  you  for  your  bill  of  parcels." 

"  Good ;  but  to  them  you  let  as  dear  as  you  have 
bought  cheaply  of  me." 

"  I  must  look  out.  I  have  a  cousin  who  has  a  hand- 
some furnished  house  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  His 
wife  is  a  milliner  in  a  large  way,  and  employs,  perhaps, 
twenty  needlewomen,  either  in  the  house,  or  having  the 
work  at  home." 

"I  say,  old  boy,  I  dare  say  there's  some  pretty  uns 
among  'em  ? " 

"  I  believe  you.  There's  two  or  three  that  I  have 
seen  bring  home  work  sometimes,  —  my  eyes,  ain't  they 
pretty,  though  ?  One  little  one  in  particular,  who  works 
at  home,  and  is  always  a-laughing,  and  they  calls  her 
Rigolette,  oh,  my  pippin,  what  a  pity  one  ain't  twenty 
years  old  all  over  again ! " 

"  Halloa,  daddy,  how  you  are  going  it !  " 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,  my  boy,  —  all  right ! " 

" '  Walker ! '  old  boy.    And  you  say  your  cousin  —  " 

"  Does  uncommon  well  with  his  house,  and,  as  it  is 
the  same  number  as  that  of  the  little  Rigolette  —  " 

"What,  again?" 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right  and  proper." 

« '  Walker ! ' " 

"  He  won't  have  any  lodgers  but  those  who  have  pass- 
ports and  papers ;  but  if  any  come  who  haven't  got  wem, 
he  sends  me  those  customers." 

"  And  they  pays  accordingly  ?  " 

"  In  course." 

"  But  they  are  all  in  our  line  who  haven't  got  their 
riglar  papers  ?  " 

124 


A  LODGING  -  HOUSE. 


"  By  no  manner  of  means !  Why,  very  lately,  my 
cousin  sent  me  a  customer,  —  devil  burn  me  if  I  can 
make  him  out !    Another  drain  ? 99 

"Just  one;  the  liquor's  good.  Here's  t'ye  again, 
Daddy  Micou !  " 

"  Here's  to  you  again,  my  covey  !  I  was  saying  that 
the  other  day  my  cousin  sent  me  a  customer  whom  I 
can't  make  out.  Imagine  a  mother  and  daughter,  who 
looked  very  queer  and  uncommon  seedy ;  they  had  their 
whole  kit  in  a  pocket-handkerchief.  Well,  there  warn't 
much  to  be  expected  out  of  this,  for  they  had  no  papers, 
and  they  lodge  by  the  fortnight ;  yet,  since  they've  been 
here,  they  haven't  moved  any  more  than  a  dormouse. 
No  men  come  to  see  them  ;  and  yet  they're  not  bad- 
looking,  if  they  weren't  so  thin  and  pale,  particularly 
the  daughter,  about  sixteen,  —  with  such  a  pair  of  black 
eyes,  —  oh,  such  eyes  !  " 

"Halloa,  dad!  You're  off  again.  What  do  these 
women  do  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  know ;  they  must  be  respectable, 
and  yet,  as  they  receive  letters  without  any  address,  it 
looks  queer." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  They  sent,  this  morning,  my  nephew  Andre*  to  the 
Poste-Restante  to  inquire  for  a  letter  addressed  to  '  Ma- 
dame X.  Z.'  The  letter  was  expected  from  Normandy, 
from  a  town  called  Aubiers.  They  wrote  that  down  on 
paper,  so  that  Andre  might  get  the  letter  by  giving  these 
particulars.  You  see,  it  does  not  look  quite  the  thing 
for  women  to  take  the  name  of  '  X.'  and  <  Z.'  And  yet 
they  never  have  any  male  visitors." 

"  They  won't  pay  you." 

"  Oh,  my  fine  fellow,  they  don't  catch  an  old  bird  like 
me  with  chaff.  They  took  a  room  without  a  fireplace, 
and  I  made  them  pay  the  twenty  francs  down  for  the 
fortnight.  They  are,  perhaps,  ill,  for  they  have  not 
been  down  for  the  last  two  days.  It  is  not  indigestion 
125 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


that  ails  them,  for  I  don't  think  they  have  cooked 
anything  since  they  came  here." 

"  If  you  had  all  such  customers,  Father  Micou  —  " 

"  Oh,  they  go  and  come.  If  I  lodge  people  without 
passports,  why,  I  also  have  different  people.  I  have 
now  two  travelling  gents,  a  postman,  the  leader  of  the 
band  at  the  Cafe'  des  Aveugles,  and  a  lady  of  fortune,  — 
all  most  respectable  persons,  such  as  save  the  reputation 
of  a  house,  if  the  commissary  is  inclined  to  look  a  little 
too  closely  into  things;  they  are  not  night-lodgers,  but 
tenants  of  the  broad  sunshine." 

"  When  it  comes  into  your  alley,  Father  Micou." 

"  You're  a  wag.    Another  drain,  yes,  just  one  more." 

"  Well,  it  must  be  my  last,  for  then  I  must  cut.  By 
the  way,  doesn't  Robin,  the  Gros-Boiteux,  lodge  here 
still?" 

"  Yes,  up-stairs,  on  the  same  landing  as  the  mother 
and  daughter.  He's  pretty  nearly  run  through  his 
money  he  earned  in  gaol." 

"  I  say,  mind  your  eye,  —  he's  outlawed." 

"  I  know  it,  but  I  can't  get  rid  of  him.  I  think  he's 
got  something  in  hand,  for  little  Tortillard  came  here 
the  other  night  along  with  Barbillon.  I'm  afraid  he'll 
do  something  to  my  lodgers,  so,  when  his  fortnight  is 
up,  I  shall  bundle  him,  telling  him  his  room  is  taken  for 
an  ambassador,  or  the  husband  of  Madame  Saint-Ilde- 
fonse,  my  independent  lady." 

"  An  independent  lady  ? " 

"  I  believe  you !  Three  rooms  and  a  cabinet  in  the 
front,  —  nothing  less,  —  newly  furnished,  to  say  nothing 
of  an  attic  for  her  servant.  Eighty  francs  a  month,  and 
paid  in  advance  by  her  uncle,  to  whom  she  gives  one  of 
her  spare  rooms  when  he  comes  up  from  the  country.  , 
But  I  believe  his  country-house  is  about  the  Rue  Yivi- 
enne,  or  the  Rue  St.  HonoreV' 

"I  twig!    She's  independent  because  the  old  fellow 
pays." 

126 


A  LODGING  -  HOUSE. 


"  Hush !    Here's  her  maid." 

A  middle-aged  woman,  wearing  a  white  apron  of 
very  doubtful  cleanliness,  entered  the  dealer's  ware- 
house. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Madame  Charles  ?  " 

"  Father  Micou,  is  your  nephew  within  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone  to  the  post-office ;  but  I  expect  him  in 
immediately." 

"M.  Badinot  wishes  him  to  take  this  letter  to  its 
address  instantly.  There's  no  answer,  but  it  is  in  great 
haste." 

"  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  will  be  on  his  way 
thither,  madame." 

"  He  must  make  great  haste." 
"  He  shall,  be  assured." 
The  servant  went  away. 

"  Is  she  the  maid  of  one  of  your  lodgers,  Father 
Micou?" 

"  She  is  the  bonne  of  my  independent  lady,  Madame 
Saint-Ildefonse.  But  M.  Badinot  is  her  uncle  ;  he  came 
from  the  country  yesterday,"  said  the  respectable  Micou, 
who  was  looking  at  the  letter,  and  then  added,  reading 
the  address,  "  Look,  now,  what  grand  acquaintances ! 
Why,  I  told  you  they  were  high  folks ;  he  writes  to  a 
viscount." 

"  Oh,  bah !  " 

"  See  here,  then, '  To  Monsieur  the  Yicomte  de  Saint- 
Remy,  Rue  de  Chaillot.  In  great  haste.  Private.'  I 
hope,  when  we  lodge  independent  persons  who  have 
uncles  who  write  to  viscounts,  we  may  allow  some  few 
of  our  other  lodgers  higher  up  in  the  house  to  be 
without  passports,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you.  Well,  then,  Father  Micou,  we  shall 
soon  be  back.  I  shall  fasten  my  dog  and  cart  to  your 
door,  and  carry  what  I  have ;  so  be  ready  with  the 
goods  and  the  money,  so  that  I  may  cut  at  once." 

"  I'll  be  ready.  Four  good  iron  plates,  each  two  feet 
127 


\ 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


square,  three  bars  of  iron  two  feet  long,  and  two  hinges 
for  your  valve.    This  valve  seems  very  odd  to  me ;  but 
it's  no  affair  of  mine.    Is  that  all  ?  " 
"  Yes,  and  my  money  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  shall  have  your  money.    But  now  I  look  at 
you  in  the  light  —  now  I  get  a  good  view  of  you  —  " 
«  Well  ? " 

"I  don't  know  —  but  you  seem  as  if  something  was 
the  matter." 
"I  do?" 
"Yes." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  If  anything  ails  me  it  is  that  I'm 
hungry." 

"  You're  hungry  ?  Like  enough ;  but  it  rather  looks 
as  if  you  wanted  to  appear  very  lively,  whilst  all  the 
while  there's  something  that  worries  you ;  and  it  must 
be  something,  for  it  ain't  a  trifle  that  puts  you 
out." 

"  I  tell  you  you're  mistaken,  Father  Micou,"  said 
Nicholas,  shuddering. 

«  Why,  you  quite  tremble  ! " 
"  It's  my  arm  that  pains  me." 

"  Well,  don't  forget  my  prescription,  that  will  cure 
you." 

"  Thank  ye,  I'll  soon  be  back."  And  the  ruffian  went 
on  his  way. 

The  receiver,  after  having  concealed  the  lumps  of 
copper  behind  his  counter,  occupied  himself  in  collecting 
the  various  things  which  Nicholas  had  requested,  when 
another  individual  entered  his  shop.  It  was  a  man 
about  fifty  years  of  age,  with  a  keen,  sagacious  face,  a 
thick  pair  of  gray  whiskers,  and  gold  spectacles.  He 
was  extremely  well  dressed ;  the  wide  sleeves  of  his 
brown  paletot,  with  black  velvet  cuffs,  showing  his  hands 
covered  with  thin  coloured  kid  gloves,  and  his  boots 
bore  evidence  of  having  been  on  the  previous  evening 
highly  polished. 

128 


A  LODGING  -  HOUSE. 


It  was  M.  Badinot,  the  independent  lady's  uncle,  that 
Madame  Saint-Hdefonse,  whose  social  position  formed 
the  pride  and  security  of  P£re  Micou.  The  reader  may, 
perchance,  recollect  that  M.  Badinot,  the  former  attor- 
ney, struck  off  that  respectable  list,  then  a  Chevalier 
d'Industrie,  and  agent  in  equivocal  matters,  was  the  spy 
of  Baron  de  Graiin,  and  had  given  that  diplomatist 
many  and  very  precise  particulars  as  to  many  person- 
ages connected  with  this  tale. 

"  Madame  Charles  has  just  given  you  a  letter  to 
send  ?  "  said  M.  Badinot,  to  the  dealer  in  et  ceteras. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  my  nephew  I  expect  every  moment,  and 
he  shall  go  directly." 

"  No,  give  me  the  letter  again,  I  have  changed  my 
mind.  I  shall  go  myself  to  the  Comte  de  Saint-Remy," 
said  M.  Badinot,  pronouncing  this  aristocratic  name  very 
emphatically,  and  with  much  importance. 

"  Here's  the  letter,  sir  ;  have  you  any  other  commis- 
sion ?  " 

"  No,  Pere  Micou,"  said  M.  Badinot,  with  a  protecting 
air,  "  but  I  have  something  to  scold  you  about." 
"Me,  sir?" 
"  Very  much,  indeed." 
"  About  what,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  Madame  de  Saint-Ildefonse  pays  very  expen- 
sively for  your  first  floor.  My  niece  is  a  lodger  to  whom 
the  greatest  respect  ought  to  be  paid  ;  she  came  highly 
recommended  to  your  house,  and,  having  a  great  aver- 
sion to  the  noise  of  carriages,  she  hoped  she  should  be 
here  as  if  she  were  in  the  country." 

"  So  she  is  ;  it  is  quite  like  a  village  here.  You  ought 
to  know,  sir,  —  you  who  live  in  the  country,  —  this  is  a 
real  village." 

"  A  village  !  Very  like,  indeed  !  Why,  there  is  always 
such  an  infernal  din  in  the  house." 

"  Still,  it  is  impossible  to  find  a  quieter  house.  Above 
the  lady,  there  is  the  leader  of  the  band  at  the  Cafe  des 
129 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Aveugles,  and  a  gentleman  traveller ;  over  that,  another 
traveller ;  over  that  —  " 

"  I  am  not  alluding  to  those  persons ;  they  are  very- 
quiet,  and  appear  very  respectable.  My  niece  has  no 
fault  to  find  with  them ;  but  in  the  fourth,  there  is  a 
stout  lame  man,  whom  Madame  de  Saint-Ildefonse  met 
yesterday  tipsy  on  the  stairs ;  he  was  shrieking  like  a 
savage,  and  she  nearly  had  a  fit,  she  was  so  much 
alarmed.  If  you  think  that,  with  such  lodgers,  your 
house  resembles  a  village  —  " 

"  Sir,  I  assure  you  I  only  wait  the  opportunity  to  turn 
this  stout  lame  man  out-of-doors ;  he  has  paid  his  last 
fortnight  in  advance,  otherwise  I  should  already  have 
turned  him  out." 

"  You  should  not  have  taken  in  such  a  lodger." 

"  But,  except  him,  I  hope  madame  has  nothing  to 
complain  of.  There  is  a  twopenny  postman,  who  is  the 
cream  of  honest  fellows,  and  overhead,  beside  the  cham- 
ber of  the  stout  lame  man,  a  lady  and  daughter,  who  do 
not  move  any  more  than  dormice." 

"  I  repeat,  Madame  de  Saint-Ildefonse  only  complains 
of  this  stout  lame  man,  who  is  the  nightmare  of  the 
house ;  and  I  warn  you  that,  if  you  keep  such  a  fellow 
in  your  house,  you  will  find  all  your  respectable  lodgers 
leave  you." 

"  I  will  send  him  away,  you  may  be  assured.  I  have 
no  wish  to  keep  him." 

"  You  will  only  do  what's  right,  for  else  your  house 
will  be  forsaken." 

"  Which  will  not  answer  my  purpose  at  all ;  so,  sir, 
consider  the  stout  lame  man  as  gone,  for  he  has  only 
four  more  days  to  stay  here." 

"  Which  is  four  days  too  many ;  but  it  is  your 
affair.  At  the  first  outbreak,  my  niece  leaves  your 
house." 

"  Be  assured,  sir  —  " 

"  It  is  all  for  your  own  interest,  —  and  look  to  it,  for  I 
130 


A  LODGING  -  HOUSE. 


am  not  a  man  of  many  words,"  said  M.  Badinot,  with  a 
patronising  air,  and  he  went  out. 

Need  we  say  that  this  female  and  her  young  daughter, 
who  lived  so  lonely,  were  the  two  victims  of  the  notary's 
cupidity  ?  We  will  now  conduct  the  reader  to  the  mis- 
erable retreat  in  which  they  lived. 


131 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE  VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE.1 

Let  the  reader  picture  to  himself  a  small  chamber  on 
the  fourth  floor  of  the  wretched  house  in  the  Passage  de 
la  Brasserie.  Scarcely  could  the  faint  glimmers  of  early 
morn  force  their  pale  rays  through  the  narrow  casements 
forming  the  only  window  to  this  small  apartment ;  the 
three  panes  of  glass  that  apology  for  a  window  contained 
were  cracked  and  almost  the  colour  of  horn,  a  dingy  and 
torn  yellow  paper  adhered  in  some  places  to  the  walls, 
while  from  each  corner  of  the  cracked  ceiling  hung  long 
and  thick  cobwebs  ;  and  to  complete  the  appearance  of 
wretchedness  so  evident  in  this  forlorn  spot,  the  flooring 
was  broken  away,  and,  in  many  places,  displayed  the 
beams  which  supported  it,  as  well  as  the  lath  and  plas- 
ter forming  the  ceiling  of  the  room  beneath.  A  deal 
table,  a  chair,  an  old  trunk,  without  hinges  or  lock,  a 
truckle-bed,  with  a  wooden  headboard,  covered  by  a  thin 
mattress,  coarse  sheets  of  unbleached  cloth,  and  an  old 
rug,  —  such  was  the  entire  furniture  of  this  wretched 
chamber. 

On  the  chair  sat  the  Baroness  de  Fermont,  and  in  the 
bed  reposed  her  daughter,  Claire  de  Fermont.  Such  were 
the  names  of  these  two  victims  of  the  villainy  of  Jacques 
Ferrand.  Possessing  but  one  bed,  the  mother  and  child 
took  "it  by  turns  to  sleep.  Too  much  uneasiness  and  too 
many  bitter  cares  prevented  Madame  de  Fermont  from 

1  "  The  average  punishment  awarded  to  such  as  are  convicted  of  breach 
of  trust  is  two  months'  imprisonment  and  a  fine  of  twenty-five  francs."  — 
Art.  406  and  408  of  the  "  Code  Penal." 

132 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


enjoying  the  blessing  of  repose ;  but  her  daughter's 
young  and  elastic  nature  easily  yielded  to  the  natural  im- 
pulse which  made  her  willingly  seek  in  short  slumbers  a 
temporary  respite  from  the  misery  by  which  she  was 
surrounded  during  her  waking  hours.  At  the  present 
moment  she  was  sleeping  peacefully. 

Nothing  could  be  imagined  more  touchingly  affecting 
than  the  picture  of  misery  imposed  by  the  avarice  of  the 
notary  on  two  females  hitherto  accustomed  to  every  com- 
fort, and  surrounded  in  their  native  city  by  that  respect 
which  is  ever  felt  for  honourable  and  honoured  families. 

Madame  de  Fermont  was  about  six  and  thirty  years  of 
age,  with  a  countenance  at  once  expressive  of  gentleness 
and  intelligence,  mingled  with  an  indescribably  noble  and 
majestic  air.  Her  features,  which  had  once  boasted 
extreme  beauty,  were  now  pale  and  careworn  ;  her  dark 
hair  was  separated  on  her  forehead,  and  formed  two 
thick,  lustrous  bandeaux,  which,  after  shading  her  pallid 
countenance,  were  twisted  in  with  her  back  hair,  whose 
tresses  the  hand  of  sorrow  had  already  mingled  with 
gray.  Dressed  in  an  old  shabby  black  dress,  patched 
and  pieced  in  various  places,  Madame  de  Fermont,  her 
head  supported  by  her  hand,  was  surveying  her  child 
with  looks  of  ineffable  tenderness. 

Claire  was  but  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  her  gentle  and 
innocent  countenance,  thin  and  sorrowful  as  that  of  her 
mother,  looked  still  more  pallid  as  contrasted  with  the 
coarse,  unbleached  linen  which  covered  her  bolster,  filled 
only  with  sawdust.  The  once  brilliant  complexion  of  the 
poor  girl  had  sickened  beneath  the  privations  she  en- 
dured ;  and,  as  she  slept,  the  long,  dark  lashes  which 
fringed  her  large  and  lustrous  eyes  stood  out  almost  un- 
naturally upon  her  sunken  cheek;  the  once  fresh  and 
rosy  lips  were  now  dry,  cracked,  and  colourless,  yet,  half 
opened  as  they  were,  they  displayed  the  faultless  regu- 
larity of  her  pearly  teeth. 

The  harsh  contact  of  the  rough  linen  which  covered 
i33 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


her  bed  had  caused  a  temporary  redness  about  the  neck-, 
shoulders,  and  arms  of  the  poor  girl,  whose  fine  and 
delicate  skin  was  marbled  and  spotted  by  the  friction 
both  of  the  miserable  sheets  and  rug.  A  sensation  of 
uneasiness  and  discomfort  seemed  to  pervade  even  her 
slumbers  ;  for  the  clearly  defined  eyebrows,  occasionally — 
contracted,  as  though  the  sleeper  were  under  the  in- 
fluence of  an  uneasy  dream,  and  the  pained  expression 
observable  on  the  features,  foretold  the  deadly  nature  of 
the  disease  at  work  within. 

Madame  de  Fermont  had  long  ceased  to  find  relief  in 
tears,  but,  like  her  suffering  daughter,  she  found  that 
weakness,  languor,  and  dejection,  which  is  ever  the  pre- 
cursor of  severe  illness,  rapidly  and  daily  increasing ; 
but,  unwilling  to  alarm  Claire,  and  wishing,  if  possible, 
even  to  conceal  the  frightful  truth  from  herself,  the 
wretched  mother  struggled  against  the  first  approaches 
of  her  malady,  while,  from  a  similar  feeling  of  devotion 
and  affection,  Claire  sought  to  hide  from  her  parent  the 
extreme  suffering  she  herself  experienced. 

To  attempt  to  describe  the  tortures  endured  by  the 
tender  mother,  as,  during  the  greater  part  of  the  night, 
she  watched  her  slumbering  child,  her  thoughts  alter- 
nately dwelling  on  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future, 
would  be  to  paint  the  sharpest,  bitterest,  wildest  agony 
that  ever  crossed  the  brain  of  a  loving  and  despairing 
mother ;  to  give  alternately  her  reminiscences  of  bygone 
happiness,  her  shuddering  dread  of  impending  evil,  her 
fearful  anticipations,  her  bitter  regrets,  and  utter  despond- 
ency, mingled  with  bursts  of  frenzied  rage  against  the 
author  of  all  her  sorrows,  vain  supplications,  eager,  ear- 
nest prayers,  ending  at  last  fearfully  and  dreadfully  in 
openly  expressed  mistrust  of  the  omnipotence  and  justice 
of  the  Great  Being  who  could  thus  remain  insensible  to 
the  cry  which  arose  from  a  mother's  breaking  heart, 
to  that  holy  plea  whose  sound  should  reach  the  throne 
of  grace,  —  "  Pity,  pity,  for  my  child  !  " 

134 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


"  How  cold  she  is ! "  cried  the  poor  mother,  lightly 
touching  with  her  icy  hand  the  equally  chill  arm  of  her 
child  ;  "  how  very,  very  cold !  and  scarcely  an  hour  ago 
just  as  hot !  Alas,  'tis  the  cruel  fever  which  has  seized 
upon  her !  Happily  the  dear  creature  is  as  yet  uncon- 
scious of  her  malady  !  Gracious  heaven,  she  is  becom- 
ing cold  as  death  itself !  What  shall  I  do  to  bring  warmth 
to  her  poor  frame  ?  The  bed-coverings  are  so  slight !  A 
good  thought!  I  will  throw  my  old  shawl  over  her. 
But  no,  no  !  I  dare  not  remove  it  from  the  door  over 
which  I  have  hung  it,  lest  those  men  so  brutally  intox- 
icated should  endeavour,  as  they  did  yesterday,  to  look 
into  the  room  through  the  disjointed  panels  or  openings 
in  the  framework. 

"  What  a  horrible  place  we  have  got  into  !  Oh,  if  I 
had  but  known  by  what  description  of  persons  it  was 
inhabited  before  I  paid  the  fortnight  in  advance !  Cer- 
tainly, we  would  not  have  remained  here.  But,  alas,  I 
knew  it  not ;  and  when  we  have  no  vouchers  for  our 
respectability,  it  is  so  difficult  to  obtain  furnished  lodg- 
ings. Who  could  ever  have  thought  I  should  have  been 
at  a  loss,  —  I  who  quitted  Angers  in  my  own  carriage, 
deeming  it  unfit  my  daughter  should  travel  .by  any 
public  conveyance  ?  How  could  I  have  imagined  that 
I  should  experience  any  difficulty  in  obtaining  every 
requisite  testimonial  of  my  honour  and  honesty  ? " 

Then  bursting  into  a  fit  of  anger,  she  exclaimed, 
"  'Tis  too,  too  hard,  that  because  this  unprincipled, 
hard-hearted  notary  chooses  to  strip  us  of  all  our 
possessions,  I  have  no  means  of  punishing  him  !  Yes ; 
had  I  money  I  might  sue  him  legally  for  his  miscon- 
duct. But  would  not  that  be  to  bring  obloquy  and 
contempt  on  the  memory  of  my  good,  my  noble-minded 
brother ;  to  have  it  publicly  proclaimed  that  he  con- 
summated his  ruin  by  taking  away  his  own  life,  after 
having  squandered  my  fortune  and  that  of  my  child  ; 
to  hear  him  accused  of  reducing  us  to  want  and  wretch- 
135 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


edness  ?  Oh,  never,  —  never !  Still,  however  dear  and 
sacred  is  the  memory  of  a  brother,  should  not  the  welfare 
of  my  child  be  equally  so  ? 

"And  wherefore,  too,  should  I  give  rise  to  useless 
tales  of  family  misery,  unprovided  as  I  am  with  any 
proofs  against  the  notary  ?  Oh,  it  is,  indeed,  a  cruel, 
—  a  most  cruel  case.  Sometimes,  too,  when  irritated, 
goaded  by  my  reflections  almost  to  madness,  I  find 
myself  indulging  in  bitter  plaints  against  my  brother, 
and  think  his  conduct  more  culpable  than  even  the 
notary's,  as  though  it  were  any  alleviation  of  my  woes 
to  have  two  names  to  execrate  instead  of  one.  But 
quickly  do  I  blush  at  my  own  base  and  unworthy  sus- 
picions of  one  so  good,  so  honourable,  so  noble-minded 
as  my  poor  brother !  This  infamous  notary  knows  not 
all  the  fearful  consequences  of  his  dishonesty.  He 
fancies  he  has  but  taken  from  us  our  worldly  goods, 
while  he  has  plunged  a  dagger  in  the  hearts  of  two 
innocent,  unoffending  victims,  condemned  by  his  villainy 
to  die  by  inches.  Alas,  I  dare  not  breathe  into  the  ear 
of  my  poor  child  the  full  extent  of  my  fears,  lest  her 
young  mind  should  be  unable  to  support  the  blow ! 

"  But  I  am  ill, — very,  very  ill ;  a  burning  fever  is  in 
my  veins ;  and  'tis  only  with  the  greatest  energy  and 
resolution  I  contrive  to  resist  its  approaches.  But  too 
certainly  do  I  feel  aware  that  the  germs  of  a  possibly 
mortal  disease  are  in  me.  I  am  aware  of  its  gaining 
ground  hourly.  My  throat  is  parched,  my  head  burns 
and  throbs  with  racking  pains.  These  symptoms  are 
even  more  dangerous  than  I  am  willing  to  own  even  to 
myself.  Merciful  God !  If  I  were  to  be  ill,  —  seriously, 
fatally  ill,  —  if  I  should  die!  But  no,  no!"  almost 
shrieked  Madame  Fermont,  with  wild  excitement ;  "  I 
cannot,  —  I  will  not  die  !  To  leave  Claire  at  sixteen 
years  of  age,  alone,  and  without  resource,  in  the  midst 
of  Paris !  Impossible !  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  ill ;  I  have 
mistaken  the  effects  of  sorrow,  cold,  and  want  of  rest, 
136 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


for  the  precursory  symptoms  of  illness.  Any  person 
similarly  placed  would  have  experienced  the  same.  It 
is  nothing,  nothing  worth  noticing.  There  must  be  no 
weakness  on  my  part.  'Tis  by  yielding  to  such  dismal 
anticipations  that  one  becomes  really  attacked  by  the 
very  malady  we  dread.  And  besides,  I  have  not  time 
to  be  ill.  Oh,  no  !  On  the  contrary,  I  must  immediately 
exert  myself  to  find  employment  for  Claire  and  myself, 
since  the  wretch  who  gave  us  the  prints  to  colour  has 
dared  to  —  " 

After  a  short  silence,  Madame  de  Fermont,  leaving 
her  last  sentence  unfinished,  indignantly  added : 

"  Horrible  idea !  To  ask  the  shame  of  my  child  in 
return  for  the  work  he  doles  out  to  us,  and  to  harshly 
withdraw  it  because  I  will  not  suffer  my  poor  Claire  to 
go  to  his  house  unaccompanied,  and  work  there  during 
the  evening  alone  with  him !  Possibly  I  may  succeed 
in  obtaining  work  elsewhere,  either  in  plain  or  orna- 
mental needlework.  Yet  it  is  so  very  difficult  when  we 
are  known  to  no  one ;  and  very  recently  I  tried  in  vain. 
Persons  are  afraid  of  entrusting  their  materials  to  those 
who  live  in  such  wretched  lodgings  as  ours.  And  yet  I 
dare  not  venture  upon  others  more  creditable ;  for  what 
would  become  of  us  were  the  small  sum  we  possess  once 
exhausted  ?  What  could  we  do  ?  We  should  be  utterly 
penniless ;  as  destitute  as  the  veriest  beggar  that  ever 
walked  the  earth. 

"  And  then  to  think  I  once  was  among  the  richest  and 
wealthiest !  Oh,  let  me  not  think  of  what  has  been ; 
such  considerations  serve  but  to  increase  the  already 
excited  state  of  my  brain.  It  will  madden  me  to  recol- 
lect the  past ;  and  I  am  wrong  —  oh,  very  wrong  —  thus 
to  dwell  on  ideas  that  sadden  and  depress  instead  of 
raising  and  invigorating  my  enfeebled  mind.  Had  I 
gone  on  thus  weakly  indulging  regrets,  I  might,  indeed, 
have  fallen  ill,  —  for  I  am  by  no  means  so  at  present. 
No,  no,"  continued  the  unfortunate  parent,  placing  her 
137 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


fingers  upon  the  wrist  of  her  left  hand,  "  my  fever  has 
left  me,  —  my  pulse  beats  tranquilly." 

Alas!  the  quick,  irregular,  and  hurried  pulsation 
perceptible  beneath  the  parched  yet  icy  skin  allowed 
not  of  such  flattering  hopes ;  and,  after  pausing  in  deep 
and  heartfelt  wretchedness  for  a  short  space,  the  un- 
happy Madame  de  Fermont  thus  continued  : 

"  Wherefore,  0  God  of  Mercies,  thus  visit  with  thine 
anger  two  wretched  and  helpless  creatures,  utterly  un- 
conscious of  having  merited  thy  displeasure  ?  What 
has  been  the  crime  that  has  thus  drawn  down  such 
heavy  punishments  upon  our  heads  ?  Was  not  my  child 
a  model  of  innocent  piety,  as  her  father  was  of  honour  ? 
Have  I  not  ever  scrupulously  fulfilled  my  duties  both  as 
wife  and  mother  ?  Why,  then,  permit  us  to  become  the 
victims  of  a  vile,  ignoble  wretch,  —  my  sweet,  my  inno- 
cent child  more  especially  ?  Oh,  when  I  remember  that, 
but  for  the  nefarious  conduct  of  this  notary,  the  rising 
dawn  of  my  daughter's  existence  would  have  been  clear 
and  unclouded,  I  can  scarcely  restrain  my  tears.  But 
for  his  base  treachery  we  should  now  be  in  our  own 
home,  without  further  care  or  sorrow  than  such  as  arose 
from  the  painful  and  unhappy  circumstances  attending 
the  death  of  my  poor  brother.  In  two  or  three  years' 
time  I  should  have  begun  to  think  of  marrying  my  sweet 
Claire,  that  is,  if  I  could  have  found  any  one  worthy  of 
so  good,  so  pure-minded,  and  so  lovely  a  creature  as 
herself.  Who  would  not  have  rejoiced  in  obtaining  such 
a  bride  ?  And  further,  after  having  merely  reserved  to 
myself  a  trifling  annuity,  sufficient  to  have  enabled  me 
to  live  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  intended,  on 
her  marriage,  to  bestow  on  her  the  whole  of  my  remain- 
ing possessions,  amounting  to  at  least  one  hundred 
thousand  crowns;  for  I  should  have  been  enabled  to 
lay  by  something.  And,  when  a  lovely  and  beautiful 
young  creature,  like  my  Claire,  gifted  with  all  the 
advantages  of  a  superior  education,  can,  in  addition. 
138 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


boast  of  a  dowry  of  more  than  one  hundred  thousand 
crowns  —  " 

Then,  as  she  again  returned  to  the  realities  of  her 
present  position,  altogether  overcome  by  the  painful  con- 
trast, Madame  de  Fermont  exclaimed,  almost  frantically : 

"  Still,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that,  because  the 
notary  so  wills  it,  I  shall  sit  tamely  by  and  see  my  only 
and  beloved  child  reduced  to  the  most  abject  misery, 
entitled  as  she  is  to  a  life  of  the  most  unalloyed  felicity. 
If  I  can  obtain  no  redress  from  the  laws  of  my  country, 
I  will  not  permit  the  infamous  conduct  of  this  man  to 
escape  unpunished.  For  if  I  am  driven  to  desperation, 
if  I  find  no  means  of  extricating  my  daughter  and  myself 
from  the  deplorable  condition  to  which  the  villainy  of 
this  man  has  brought  us,  I  cannot  answer  for  myself, 
or  what  I  may  do.  I  may  be  driven  by  madness  to 
retaliate  on  this  man,  even  by  taking  his  life.  And 
what  if  I  did,  after  all  I  have  endured,  after  all  the 
scalding  tears  he  has  caused  me  to  shed,  who  could 
blame  me  ?  At  least  I  should  be  secure  of  the  pity  and 
sympathy  of  all  mothers  who  loved  their  children  as  I 
do  my  Claire.  Yes;  but,  then,  what  would  be  her 
position,  —  left  alone,  friendless,  unexperienced,  and 
destitute  ?  Oh,  no,  no,  that  is  my  principal  dread ; 
therefore  do  I  fear  to  die. 

"  And  for  that  same  reason  dare  I  not  harm  the  traitor 
who  has  wrought  our  ruin.  What  would  become  of  her 
at  sixteen?  —  pure  and  spotless  as  an  angel,  'tis  true. 
But  then  she  is  so  surpassingly  lovely ;  and  want,  desola- 
tion, cold,  and  misery  are  fearful  things  to  oppose  alone 
and  unaided.  How  fearful  a  conflict  might  be  presented 
to  one  of  her  tender  years,  and  into  how  terrible  an 
abyss  might  she  not  fall  ?  Oh,  want,  —  fatal  word  !  As 
I  trace  it,  a  crowd  of  sickening  images  rise  before  me, 
and  distract  my  senses.  Destitution,  dreadful  as  it  is 
to  all,  is  still  more  formidable  to  those  who  have  lived 
surrounded  not  only  with  every  comfort,  but  even  luxury. 
139 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


One  thing  I  cannot  pardon  myself  for,  and  that  is  that, 
in  the  face  of  all  these  overwhelming  trials,  I  have  not 
yet  been  able  to  subdue  my  unfortunate  pride ;  and  I 
feel  persuaded  that  nothing  but  the  sight  of  my  child, 
actually  perishing  before  my  eyes  for  want  of  bread, 
could  induce  me  to  beg.  How  weak,  how  selfish  and 
cowardly  !    Still  —  " 

Then,  as  her  thoughts  wandered  to  the  source  of  all 
her  present  sufferings  and  anguish,  she  mournfully 
continued : 

"  The  notary  has  reduced  me  to  a  state  of  beggary ;  I 
must,  therefore,  yield  to  the  stern  necessity  of  my  situa- 
tion. There  must  be  an  end  of  all  delicacy  as  well  as 
scruples.  They  might  have  been  well  enough  in  bygone 
days ;  but  my  duty  is  now  to  stretch  forth  my  hand  to 
solicit  charitable  aid  for  both  my  daughter  and  myself. 
And  if  I  fail  in  procuring  work,  I  must  make  up  my 
mind  to  implore  the  charity  of  my  fellow  creatures, 
since  the  roguery  of  the  notary  has'  left  me  no  alterna- 
tive. Doubtless  in  that,  as  in  other  trades,  there  is  an 
art,  an  expertness  to  be  acquired,  and  which  experience 
alone  can  bestow.  Never  mind,"  continued  she,  with  a 
sort  of  feverish  wildness,  "  one  must  learn  one's  craft, 
and  only  practice  can  make  perfect.  Surely  mine  must 
be  a  tale  to  move  even  the  most  unfeeling.  I  have  to 
tell  of  misfortunes  alike  severe  and  unmerited,  —  of  an 
angelic  child,  but  sixteen  years  of  age,  exposed  to  every 
evil  of  life.  But  then  it  requires  a  practised  hand  to  set 
forth  all  these  qualifications,  so  as  best  to  excite  sym- 
pathy and  compassion.  No  matter ;  I  shall  manage  it, 
I  feel  quite  sure.  And,  after  all,"  exclaimed  the  half 
distracted  woman,  with  a  gloomy  smile,  "  what  have  I 
so  much  to  complain  of  ?  Fortune  is  perishable  and 
precarious ;  and  the  notary  will,  at  least,  if  he  has  taken 
my  money,  have  compelled  me  to  adopt  a  trade." 

For  several  minutes  Madame  de  Fermont  remained 
absorbed  in  her  reflections,  then  resumed  more  calmly: 
140 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


"  I  have  frequently  thought  of  inquiring  for  some  situ- 
ation. What  I  seem  to  covet  is  just  such  a  place  as 
a  female  has  here  who  is  servant  to  a  lady  living  on 
the  first  floor.  Had  I  that  situation  I  might  probably 
receive  wages  sufficient  to  maintain  Claire ;  and  I  might 
even,  through  the  intervention  of  the  mistress  I  served, 
be  enabled  to  obtain  occupation  for  my  daughter,  who 
then  would  remain  here.  Neither  should  I  be  obliged  to 
quit  her.  Oh,  what  joy,  could  it  be  so  arranged !  But 
no,  no,  that  would  be  happiness  too  great  for  me  to 
expect ;  it  would  seem  like  a  dream.  And  then,  again, 
if  I  obtained  the  place,  the  poor  woman  now  occupying 
it  must  be  turned  away.  Possibly  she  is  as  poor  and 
destitute  as  ourselves.  Well,  what  if  she  be  ?  No 
scruple  has  arisen  to  save  us  from  being  stripped  of  our 
all,  and  my  child's  preservation  outweighs  all  fastidious 
notions  of  delicacy  in  my  breast.  The  only  difficulty 
consists  in  obtaining  an  introduction  to  the  lady  on 
the  first  floor,  and  contriving  to  dispossess  the  servant 
of  a  place  which  would  be  to  me  the  very  perfection  of 
ease  and  comfort." 

Several  loud  and  hasty  knocks  at  the  door  startled 
Madame  de  Fermont,  and  made  her  daughter  spring  up 
with  a  sudden  cry. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  dear  mother,"  asked  poor  Claire, 
trembling  with  fear,  "  what  is  the  matter  ? "  And  then, 
without  giving  her  agitated  parent  time  to  recover  her- 
self, the  terrified  girl  threw  her  arms  around  her  mother's 
neck,  as  if  she  sought  for  safety  in  that  fond,  maternal 
bosom,  while  Madame  de  Fermont,  pressing  her  child 
almost  convulsively  to  her  breast,  gazed  with  terror  at 
the  door. 

"  Mamma,  mamma,"  again  moaned  Claire, "  what  was 
that  noise  that  awoke  me  ?  And  why  do  you  seem  so 
much  alarmed  ?" 

"  I  know  not,  my  child,  what  it  was.  But  calm  your- 
self, there  is  nothing  to  fear  ;  some  one  merely  knocked 
141 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


at  the  door,  —  possibly  to  bring  us  a  letter  from  the 
post-office." 

At  this  moment  the  worm-eaten  door  shook  and 
rattled  beneath  the  blows  dealt  against  it  by  some 
powerful  fist. 

"  Who  is  there  ? "  inquired  Madame  de  Fermont,  in  a 
trembling  tone. 

A  harsh,  coarse,  and  vulgar  voice  replied,  "  Holloa, 
there  !  What,  are  you  so  deaf  there's  no  making  you 
hear  ?  Holloa,  I  say,  open  your  door ;  and  let's  have 
a  look  at  you.  Hip,  hip,  holloa !  Come,  sharp's  the 
word;  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"I  know  you  not,"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Fermont, 
striving  to  command  herself  sufficiently  to  speak  with  a 
steady  voice  ;  "  what  is  it  you  seek  here  ? " 

"  Not  know  me  ?  Why,  I'm  your  opposite  neighbour 
and  fellow  lodger,  Robin.  I  want  a  light  for  my  pipe. 
Come,  cut  about.  Whoop,  holloa !  Don't  go  to  sleep 
again,  or  I  must  come  in  and  wake  you." 

"  Merciful  heavens ! "  whispered  the  mother  to  her 
daughter,  "  'tis  that  lame  man,  who  is  nearly  always 
intoxicated." 

"  Now,  then,  are  you  going  to  give  me  a  light  ? 
Because,  I  tell  yo.u  fairly,  one  I  will  have  if  I  knock 
your  rickety  old  door  to  pieces." 

"  I  have  no  light  to  give  you." 

"  Oh,  bother  and  nonsense !  If  you  have  no  candle 
burning  you  must  have  the  means  of  lighting  one. 
Nobody  is  without  a  few  lucifer  matches,  be  they  ever 
so  poor.  Do  you  or  do  you  not  choose  to  give  me  a 
light?" 

"  I  beg  of  you  to  go  away." 

"  You  don't  choose  to  open  your  door,  then  ?  Once, 
—  twice,  —  mind,  I  will  have  it." 

"  I  request  you  to  quit  my  door  immediately,  or  I  will 
call  for  assistance." 

"  Once,  —  twice,  —  thrice,  —  you  will  not  ?  Well, 
142 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


then,  here  goes !  Now  I'll  smash  your  old  timbers 
into  morsels  too  small  for  you  to  pick  up.  Hu !  — 
hu!  — haUo!    Well  done  !  Bravo!" 

And  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  the  ruffian 
assailed  the  door  so  furiously  that  he  quickly  drove 
it  in,  the  miserable  lock  with  which  it  was  furnished 
having  speedily  broken  to  pieces. 

The  two  women  shrieked  loudly ;  Madame  de  Fer- 
mont,  in  spite  of  her  weakness,  rushed  forward  to  meet 
the  ruffian  at  the  moment  when  he  was  entering  the 
room,  and  stopped  him. 

"  Sir,  this  is  most  shameful ;  you  must  not  enter 
here,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  mother,  keeping  the  door 
closed  as  well  as  she  could.  "  I  will  call  for  help." 
And  she  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  this  man,  with  his 
hideous  and  drunken  countenance. 

"  What's  all .  this  ?  What's  all  this  ? "  said  he. 
"  Oughtn't  neighbours  to  be  obliging  ?  You  ought 
to  have  opened;  I  shouldn't  have  broken  anything." 

Then  with  the  stupid  obstinacy  of  intoxication,  he 
added,  reeling  on  his  tottering  legs : 

"  I  wanted  to  come  in,  and  I  will  come  in ;  and  I 
won't  go  out  until  I've  lighted  my  pipe." 

"  I  have  neither  fire  nor  matches.  In  heaven's  name, 
sir,  do  go  away." 

"  That's  not  true.  You  tell  me  that  I  may  not  see 
the  little  girl  who's  in  bed.  Yesterday  you  stopped  up 
all  the  holes  in  the  door.  She's  a  pretty  chick,  and  I 
should  like  to  see  her.  So  mind,  or  I  shall  hurt  you  if 
you  don't  let  me  enter  quietly.  I  tell  you  I  will  see  the 
little  girl  in  her  bed,  and  I  will  light  my  pipe,  or  I'll 
smash  everything  before  me,  and  you  into  the  bargain." 

"  Help,  help,  help  ! "  exclaimed  Madame  de  Fermont, 
who  felt  the  door  yielding  before  the  broad  shoulders  of 
the  Gros-Boiteux. 

Alarmed  by  her  cries,  the  man  retreated  a  step ;  and 
clenching  his  fist  at  Madame  de  Fermont,  he  said : 
143 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  You  shall  pay  me  for  this,  mind.  I  will  come  back 
to-night  and  wring  your  tongue  out,  and  then  you  can't 
squall  out." 

And  the  Gros-Boiteux,  as  he  was  called  at  the  Isle  du 
Ravageur,  went  down  the  staircase,  uttering  horrible 
threats. 

Madame  de  Fermont,  fearing  that  he  might  return, 
and  seeing  that  the  lock  was  broken,  dragged  the  table 
across  the  room,  in  order  to  barricade  it.  Claire  had 
been  so  alarmed,  so  agitated,  at  this  horrible  scene,  that 
she  had  fallen  on  her  bed  almost  senseless,  and  overcome 
by  a  nervous  attack.  Her  mother,  forgetting  her  own 
fears,  ran  to  her,  embraced  her,  gave  her  a  little  water 
to  drink,  and  by  her  caresses  and  attentions  revived  her. 
When  she  saw  her  gradually  recovering  she  said  to 
her : 

"  Calm  yourself ;  don't  be  alarmed,  my  dearest  child, 
this  wicked  man  has  gone."  Then  the  unfortunate 
mother  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  indescribable  indignation 
and  grief,  "  And  it  is  that  notary  who  is  the  first  cause 
of  all  our  sufferings." 

Claire  looked  about  her  with  as  much  astonishment  as 
fear. 

"  Take  courage,  my  child,"  said  Madame  de  Fermont, 
embracing  her  tenderly  ;  "  the  wretch  has  gone." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  if  he  should  come  back  again !  You 
see,  though  you  cried  so  loud  for  help,  no  one  came. 
Oh,  pray  let  us  leave  this  house,  or  I  shall  die  with 
fear ! " 

"  How  you  tremble  ;  you  are  quite  in  a  fever." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  young  girl,  to  reassure  her  mother, 
"  it  is  nothing  —  only  fright,  —  and  that  will  soon  pass 
away.  And  you,  —  how  do  you  feel?  Give  me  your 
hands.  Oh,  how  they  burn !  It  is,  indeed,  you  who  are 
suffering ;  and  you  try  to  conceal  it  from  me ! " 

"  Don't  think  so  ;  I  feel  better  than  I  did.  It  is  only 
the  fright  that  man  caused  me  which  makes  me  so.  I 
144 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


was  sleeping  soundly  in  my  chair,  and  only  awoke  when 
you  did." 

"Yet,  mamma,  your  poor  eyes  look  so  red  and 
inflamed ! " 

"  Why,  you  see,  my  dear,  one  does  not  sleep  so 
refreshingly  in  a  chair." 

"  And  you  really  do  no  suffer  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  I  assure  you.    And  you  ? " 

"  Nor  I  either.  I  only  tremble  with  fear.  Pray, 
mamma,  let  us  leave  this  house ! " 

"  And  where  shall  we  go  to  ?  You  know  what  trouble 
we  had  to  find  this  miserable  chamber ;  for,  unfortunately, 
we  have  no  papers,  —  and,  besides,  we  have  paid  a  fort- 
night in  advance.  They  will  not  return  our  money ;  and 
we  have  so  very,  very  little  left,  that  we  must  take  all 
possible  care  of  it." 

"  Perhaps  M.  de  Saint-Remy  will  answer  you  in  a  day 
or  two." 

"  I  cannot  hope  for  that.  It  is  so  long  since  I  wrote 
to  him." 

"  He  cannot  have  received  your  letter.  Why  did  not 
you  write  to  him  again  ?  From  here  to  Angers  is  not 
so  far,  and  we  should  soon  have  his  answer." 

"  My  poor  child,  you  know  how  much  that  has  cost 
me  already ! " 

"  But  there's  no  risk ;  and  he  is  so  good  in  spite  of 
his  roughness.  Wasn't  he  one  of  the  oldest  friends  of 
my  father  ?    And  then  he  is  a  relation  of  ours." 

"  But  he  is  poor  himself,  —  his  fortune  is  very  small. 
Perhaps  he  does  not  reply  to  us  that  he  may  avoid  the 
pain  of  a  refusal." 

"  But  he  may  not  have  received  your  letter,  mamma !  " 

"  And  if  he  has  received  it,  my  dear,  —  one  of  two 
things,  either  he  is  himself  in  too  painful  a  position  to 
come  to  our  aid,  or  he  feels  no  interest  in  us.  What, 
then,  is  the  use  of  exposing  ourselves  to  a  refusal  or 
humiliation  ? " 

145 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Come,  come,  courage,  mamma ;  we  have  still  a  hope 
left.  Perhaps  this  very  morning  will  bring  us  a  kind 
answer." 

"  From  M.  d'Orbigny  ? " 

"  Yes ;  the  letter  of  which  you  had  made  the  rough 
copy  was  so  simple  and  touching.  It  showed  our  miser- 
able condition  so  naturally  that  he  will  have  pity  on  us. 
Really,  I  don't  know  why,  but  something  tells  me  you 
are  wrong  to  despair  of  him." 

"  He  has  so  little  motive  for  taking  any  interest  in  us. 
It  is  true  he  formerly  knew  your  father,  and  I  have  often 
heard  my  poor  brother  speak  of  M.  d'Orbigny  as  a  man 
with  whom  he  was  on  good  terms  before  the  latter  left 
Paris  to  retire  into  the  country  with  his  young 
wife." 

"  It  is  that  which  makes  me  hope.  He  has  a  young 
wife,  and  she  will  be  compassionate.  And  then  in  the 
country  one  can  do  so  much  good.  He  will  take  you,  I 
should  think,  as  a  housekeeper,  and  I  could  work  in  the 
needle-room.  Then  M.  d'Orbigny  is  very  rich,  and  in  a 
great  house  there  is  always  so  much  to  do." 

"  Yes ;  but  we  have  so  little  claim  on  his  kind 
interest ! " 

"  We  are  so  unfortunate ! " 

"  It  is  true  that  is  a  claim  in  the  eyes  of  charitably 
disposed  persons." 

"  Let  us  hope  that  M.  d'Orbigny  and  his  wife  are  so." 

"  Then  if  we  do  not  have  any  or  an  unfavorable 
answer  from  him,  I  will  overcome  my  false  shame,  and 
write  to  the  Duchesse  de  Lucenay." 

"  The  lady  of  whom  M.  de  Saint-Remy  has  spoken  so 
often,  and  whose  kindness  and  generosity  he  so  much 
praised  ? " 

"  The  same,  —  daughter  of  the  Prince  de  Noirmont. 
He  knew  her  when  she  was  very  young,  and  treated  her 
almost  always  as  if  she  were  his  own  child,  for  he  was 
on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy  with  the  prince.  Madame 
146 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


de  Lucenay  must  have  many  acquaintances,  and,  no  doubt, 
could  easily  find  situations  for  us." 

"  No  doubt,  mamma.  But  I  understand  your  deli- 
cacy ;  you  do  not  know  her,  whilst,  at  least,  my  father 
and  my  uncle  both  knew  a  little  of  M.  d'Orbigny." 

"  Well,  but  in  case  Madame  de  Lucenay  cannot  do 
anything  for  us,  I  have  still  another  resource." 

"  What  is  that,  mamma  ? " 

"  A  very  poor  one,  —  a  very  weak  hope,  perhaps. 
But  why  should  I  not  try  it?  M.  de  Saint-Remy's 
son  is  —  " 

"Has  M.  de  Saint-Remy  a  son?"  exclaimed  Claire, 
interrupting  her  mother  with  great  astonishment. 
"  Yes,  my  dear,  he  has  a  son." 

"  Yet  he  never  spoke  of  him  when  he  used  to  come  to 
Angers." 

"  True,  and,  for  reasons  which  you  cannot  under- 
stand, M.  de  Saint-Remy,  having  quitted  Paris  fifteen 
years  ago,  has  not  seen  his  son  since  that  period." 

"  Fifteen  years  without  seeing  his  father !  Is  that 
possible  ? " 

"  Alas,  yes !  As  you  see,  the  son  of  M.  de  Saint-Remy, 
being  very  much  sought  after  in  society,  and  very  rich  —  " 

"  Very  rich,  whilst  his  father  is  poor  ? " 

"  All  young  M.  de  Saint-Remy's  wealth  came  from  his 
mother." 

"  What  of  that,  —  how  could  he  leave  his  father  ?  " 
"  His  father  would  not  accept  anything  from  him." 
"Why?" 

"  That  is  a  question  to  which  I  cannot  reply,  my  dear 
child ;  but  I  have  heard  it  said  by  my  poor  brother  that 
this  young  man  was  reputed  vastly  generous.  Young 
and  generous,  he  ought  to  be  good.  Learning  from  me 
that  my  husband  had  been  his  father's  intimate  friend, 
perhaps  he  will  interest  himself  in  trying  to  find  us 
work  or  employment.  He  has  such  high  and  extensive 
connections,  that  this  would  be  no  trouble  to  him." 
147 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  And  then,  perhaps,  too,  we  could  learn  from  him  if 
M.  de  Saint-Remy,  his  father,  had  not  quitted  Angers 
before  you  wrote  to  him :  that  would  account  for  his 
silence." 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  that  M.  de  Saint-Remy  has  not 
kept  up  any  connection  with  —   Still,  we  cannot  but  try." 

"  Unless  M.  d'Orbigny  replies  to  you  favourably,  and 
I  repeat,  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  have  hopes,  in  spite  of 
myself." 

"  It  is  now  many  days,  my  dear,  since  I  wrote  to  him, 
telling  him  all  the  causes  of  our  misfortunes,  and  yet  to 
this  time  we  have  no  reply,  —  none.  A  letter  put  in  the 
post  before  four  o'clock  in  the  evening  reaches  Aubiers 
next  morning,  and  thus  we  might  have  had  his  answer 
five  days  ago." 

"  Perhaps,  before  he  replies,  he  is  considering  in  what 
way  he  can  best  be  useful  to  us." 

"  May  Heaven  hear  thee,  my  child  !  " 

"  It  appears  to  me  plain  enough,  mamma,  if  he  could 
not  do  anything  for  us,  he  could  have  written  at  once, 
and  said  so." 

"  Unless  he  will  do  nothing." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  is  that  possible  ?  to  refuse  to  answer 
us,  and  leave  us  in  hope  for  four  days  —  eight  days, 
perhaps ;  for  when  one  is  miserable  we  always  hope." 

"  Alas,  my  child,  there  is  sometimes  so  much  indiffer- 
ence for  the  miseries  persons  have  never  known !  " 

"  But  your  letter  —  " 

"  My  letter  cannot  give  him  any  idea  of  our  actual 
disquietude,  our  constant  sufferings ;  my  letter  will  not 
depict  to  him  our  unhappy  life,  our  constant  humiliations, 
our  existence  in  this  horrid  house,  —  the  fright  we  have 
but  this  instant  experienced.  My  letter  will  not  describe 
the  horrible  future  which  is  in  store  for  us,  if  —  But, 
my  love,  do  not  let  us  talk  of  that.  You  tremble,  —  you 
are  cold." 

"  No,  mamma,  don't  mind  me ;  but  tell  me,  suppose 

118 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


all  fails  us,  the  little  money  we  have  in  the  box  is  spent, 
—  is  it  possible  that,  in  a  city  as  rich  as  Paris,  we  shall 
both  die  of  hunger  and  misery  —  for  want  of  work,  and 
because  a  wicked  man  has  taken  from  you  all  you  had 
in  the  world  ? " 

"  Oh,  be  silent,  my  unfortunate  child ! " 

"  But  really,  mamma,  is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  Alas ! " 

"  But  God,  who  knows  all,  who  can  do  all,  will  he 
abandon  us,  who  have  never  offended  him  ?" 

"  I  entreat  you,  my  dearest  girl,  do  not  give  way  to 
these  distressing  ideas.  I  would  prefer  seeing  you  hope, 
without  great  reason,  either.  Come,  come,  comfort  me 
rather  with  your  consoling  ideas ;  I  am  but  too  apt  to  be 
discouraged,  as  you  well  know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  let  us  hope,  that  is  best.  No  doubt  the 
porter's  nephew  will  return  to-day  from  the  Poste-Mestante 
with  a  letter.  Another  errand  to  pay  out  of  your  little 
stock,  and  through  my  fault.  If  I  had  not  been  so  weak 
yesterday  and  to-day  we  should  have  gone  to  the  post- 
office  ourselves,  as  we  did  the  day  before  yesterday ;  but 
you  will  not  leave  me  here  alone  and  go  yourself." 

"  How  could  I,  my  dear  ?  Only  think,  just  now, 
that  horrid  man  who  burst  open  the  door !  Suppose  you 
had  been  alone  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mamma,  pray  don't  talk  of  it ;  it  quite  frightens 
me  only  to  think  of  it." 

At  this  moment  some  one  knocked  suddenly  at  the 
door. 

"Heaven,  it  is  he  again!"  exclaimed  Madame  de 
Fermont,  still  under  her  first  fears ;  and  she  pushed  the 
table  against  the  door  with  all  her  strength.  Her  fears 
ceased  when  she  heard  the  voice  of  Father  Micou : 

"  Madame,  my  nephew,  Andre*,  has  come  from  the 
Poste-Mestante.  He  has  brought  a  letter  with  an  '  X ' 
and  a  '  Z.'  It  comes  a  long  way  ;  there  are  eight  sous 
for  postage,  and  commission  makes  twenty  sous." 

149 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Mamma,  a  letter  from  the  country,  —  we  are  saved  ! 
It  is  from  M.  de  Saint-Remy  or  M.  d'Orbigny.  Poor 
mother !  You  will  not  suffer  any  more ;  you  will  no 
longer  be  uneasy  about  me,  you  will  be  so  happy !  God 
is  just !  God  is  good  !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  and  a 
ray  of  hope  lighted  up  her  mild  and  lovely  face. 

"  Oh,  sir,  thank  you ;  give  it  to  me  quickly ! "  said 
Madame  de  Fermont,  moving  the  table  as  well  as  she 
could,  and  half  opening  the  door. 

"  Twenty  sous,"  said  the  man,  giving  her  the  anxiously 
desired  letter. 

"  I  will  pay  you,  sir." 

"  Oh,  madame,  there's  no  hurry,  I  am  going  up  higher ; 
in  ten  minutes  I  shall  be  down  again,  and  can  call  for  the 
money  as  I  pass." 

"  The  letter  is  from  Normandy,  with  the  postmark 
of  '  Les  Aubiers.'  It  is  from  Madame  d'Orbigny ! " 
exclaimed  Madame  de  Fermont,  examining  the  address, 
"  To  Madame  X.  Z.,  Poste-Restante,  a  Paris." 

"  Well,  mamma,  am  I  right  ?  Oh,  how  my  heart 
beats ! " 

"  Our  good  or  bad  fate  is  in  it,"  said  Madame  de  Fer- 
mont ;  and  twice  her  trembling  hand  was  extended  to 
break  the  seal;  she  had  not  courage. 

How  can  we  describe  the  terrible  agony  to  which  they 
are  a  prey  who,  like  Madame  de  Fermont,  expect  a  letter 
which  brings  them  either  hope  or  despair  ?  The  burn- 
ing, fevered  excitement  of  the  player  whose  last  pieces 
of  gold  are  hazarded  on  a  card,  and  who,  breathless,  with 
inflamed  eye,  awaits  for  a  decisive  cast  which  brings  his 
ruin  or  his  fortune,  —  this  emotion,  violent  as  it  is,  may 
perhaps  give  some  idea  of  the  painful  anguish  of  which 
we  speak.  In  a  second  the  soul  is  elevated  to  the  most 
radiant  hope  or  relapses  into  the  most  mortal  discourage- 
ment. According  as  he  hopes  to  be  aided,  or  fears  to  be 
refused,  the  unhappy  wretch  suffers  in  turn  emotions  of 
a  most  contrary  nature,  —  unutterable  feelings  of  happi- 
150 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


ness  and  gratitude  to  the  generous  heart  which  pities 
his  miserable  condition  —  bitter  and  intense  resentment 
against  selfish  indifference ! 

When  it  is  a  question  of  deserving  sufferers,  those 
who  give  often  would  perhaps  give  always,  and  those 
who  always  refuse  would  perhaps  give  frequently,  if  they 
knew  or  saw  that  the  hope  of  benevolent  aid  or  the  fear 
of  a  haughty  refusal  —  that  their  decision,  indeed  —  can 
excite  all  that  is  distressing  or  encouraging  in  the  hearts 
of  their  petitioners. 

"  What  weakness  !  "  said  Madame  de  Fermont,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  seating  herself  by  her  daughter ;  "  once  again, 
my  poor  Claire,  our  destiny  is  in  this  envelope  ;  I  burn 
with  anxiety  to  know  its  contents,  and  yet  I  dare  not 
read  it.  If  it  be  a  refusal,  alas,  it  will  be  soon 
enough ! " 

"  And  if  it  be  a  promise  of  assistance,  then,  mamma  — 
If  this  poor  little  letter  contain  consoling  words,  which 
shall  assure  us  for  the  future,  by  promising  us  a  humble 
employment  in  the  establishment  of  M.  d'Orbigny,  every 
moment  lost  is  a  moment  of  happiness  lost,  —  is  it 
not?" 

"  Yes,  my  love  ;  but  on  the  other  hand  —  " 
"  No,  mamma,  you  are  mistaken ;  I  told  you  that  M. 
d'Orbigny  had  only  delayed  so  long  that  he  might  men- 
tion something  certain  to  you.  Let  me  see  the  letter, 
mamma.  I  am  sure  I  can  guess  if  it  is  good  or  bad  by 
the  writing.  And  I  am  sure,"  said  Claire,  looking  at 
the  letter,  "  that  it  is  a  kind  and  generous  hand,  accus- 
tomed to  execute  benevolence  towards  those  who  suffer." 

"  I  entreat  you,  Claire,  not  to  give  way  to  vain  hopes ; 
for,  if  you  do,  I  shall  not  have  the  courage  to  open  the 
letter." 

"  My  dear  mother,  without  opening  it,  I  can  tell 
you  almost  word  for  word  what  it  contains.    Listen : 
'  Madame,  —  Your  fate  and  that  of  your  daughter  are 
so  worthy  of  interest,  that  I  beg  you  will  come  to  me,  in 
151 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

/ 

case  you  should  like  to  undertake  the  superintendence  of 
my  house.' " 

"  Pray,  my  dearest,  I  beseech  you,  do  not  give  way  to 
vain  hopes ;  the  disappointment  would  be  terrible  ! "  said 
Madame  de  Fermont,  taking  the  letter. 

"  Come,  dear  mamma,"  said  Claire,  smiling,  and 
excited  by  one  of  those  feelings  of  certainty  so  natural 
to  her  age,  "  give  me  the  letter ;  I  have  courage  to 
read  it!" 

"  No,"  said  Madame  de  Fermont,  "  I  will  read  it !  It 
is  from  the  Comtesse  d'Orbigny." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  replied  Claire. 

"  We  shall  see."  And  Madame  de  Fermont  read  as 
follows  in  a  trembling  voice  : 

"  <  Madame  :  —  M.  the  Comte  d'Orbigny,  who  has  been  a 
great  invalid  for  some  time,  could  not  reply  to  you  during  my 

absence  — ' " 

"  You  see,  mamma,  it  was  no  one's  fault." 
"  Listen,  listen ! 

"  <  On  arriving  from  Paris  this  morning,  I  hasten  to  write  to 
you,  madame,  after  having  discussed  your  letter  with  M.  d'Or- 
bigny. He  recollects  but  very  indistinctly  the  intimacy  you 
allude  to  as  having  subsisted  between  him  and  your  brother. 
As  to  the  name  of  your  husband,  madame,  it  is  not  unknown  to 
M.  d'Orbigny ;  but  he  cannot  recall  to  mind  under  what  circum- 
stances he  has  heard  it.  The  spoliation  of  which  you  so  unhesi- 
tatingly accuse  M.  Jacques  Ferrand,  whom  we  have  the  happiness 
to  call  our  solicitor,  is,  in  the  eyes  of  M.  d'Orbigny,  a  cruel  cal- 
umny, whose  effects  you  have  by  no  means  calculated  upon.  My 
husband,  as  well  as  myself,  madame,  know  and  admire  the  extreme 
probity  of  the  respectable  and  pious  individual  whom  you  so 
blindly  assail ;  and  I  am  compelled  to  tell  you,  madame,  that  M. 
d'Orbigny,  whilst  he  regrets  the  painful  situation  in  which  you 
are  placed,  and  the  real  cause  of  which  it  is  not  his  business  to 
find  out,  feels  it  impossible  to  afford  you  the  assistance  requested. 
Accept,  madame,  with  the  expression  of  M.  d'Orbigny's  regrets, 
my  best  compliments. 

" 1  Comtesse  d'Orbigny.'  " 


152 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


The  mother  and  daughter  looked  at  each  other  per- 
fectly stupefied,  and  incapable  of  uttering  a  word.  Father 
Micou  rapped  at  the  door,  and  said : 

"  Madame,  may  I  come  in  for  the  postage  and  com- 
mission ?    It's  twenty  sous." 

"  Ah,  true,  such  good  news  is  worth  a  sum  on  which 
we  exist  for  two  days,"  said  Madame  de  Fermont,  with 
a  bitter  smile,  laying  the  letter  down  on  her  daughter's 
bed,  and  going  towards  an  old  trunk  without  a  lock,  to 
which  she  stooped  down  and  opened.  "  We  are  robbed  !  " 
exclaimed  the  unhappy  woman,  with  alarm.  "  Nothing 
—  not  a  sou  left !  "  she  added,  in  a  mournful  voice ; 
and,  overwhelmed,  she  supported  herself  on  the  trunk. 

"  What  do  you  say,  mamma,  —  the  bag  with  the  money 
in  it?" 

But  Madame  de  Fermont,  rising  suddenly,  opened  the 
room  door,  and,  addressing  the  receiver,  who  was  on 
the  landing-place  : 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  whilst  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her 
cheeks  were  flushed  with  indignation  and  alarm,  "  I  had 
a  bag  of  silver  in  this  trunk ;  it  was  stolen  from  me,  no 
doubt,  the  day  before  yesterday,  when  I  went  out  for  an 
hour  with  my  daughter.  The  money  must  be  restored, 
I  tell  you, —  you  are  responsible  for  it !  " 

"  You've  been  robbed !  That's  false,  I  know.  My 
house  is  respectable,"  said  the  fellow,  in  an  insolent  and 
brutal  tone  ;  "  you  only  say  that  in  order  not  to  pay  me 
my  postage  and  commission." 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  this  money  was  all  I  possessed  in 
the  world  ;  it  has  been  stolen  from  me,  and  I  must  have 
it  found  and  restored,  or  I  will  lodge  an  information. 
Oh,  I  will  conceal  nothing  —  I  will  respect  nothing  — 
I  tell  you  !  " 

"  Very  fine,  indeed !  You  who  have  got  no  papers.  Go 
and  lay  your  information,  —  go  at  once.  Why  don't 
you  ?    I  defy  you,  I  do  !  " 

The  wretched  woman  was  thunderstruck.    She  could 

153 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


not  go  out  and  leave  her  daughter  alone,  confined  to  her 
bed  as  she  was  by  the  fright  the  Gros-Boiteux  had  occa- 
sioned her  in  the  morning,  and  particularly  after  the 
threats  with  which  the  receiver  of  stolen  goods  had 
menaced  her.    He  added  : 

"  This  is  a  fudge  !  You'd  as  much  a  bag  of  silver  there 
as  a  bag  of  gold.  Will  you  pay  me  for  the  letter,  —  will 
you  or  won't  you  ?  Well,  it's  just  the  same  to  me. 
When  you  go  by  my  door,  I'll  snatch  off  your  old  black 
shawl  from  your  shoulders.  It's  a  precious  shabby  one ; 
but  I  daresay  I  can  make  twenty  sous  out  of  it." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Fermont,  bursting 
into  tears,  "  I  beseech  you  have  pity  upon  us  !  This 
small  sum  is  all  we  possess,  my  daughter  and  I,  and, 
that  stolen,  we  have  nothing  left  —  nothing  —  I  say 
nothing,  but  —  to  die  of  starvation  ! " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  If  it's  true  that  you  have  been 
robbed,  and  of  silver,  too  (which  appears  to  me  very  un- 
likely), why,  the  silver  has  been  melted  long  since,  rely 
on  it." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  Mon  Dieu  !  " 

"  The  chap  who  did  the  trick  was  not  so  soft,  rely  on 
it,  as  to  mark  the  pieces,  and  keep  'em  here,  to  lead  to 
his  own  detection.  Supposing  it's  any  one  in  the  house, 
which  I  don't  believe  (for,  as  I  was  a-saying  this  morn- 
ing to  the  uncle  of  the  lady  on  the  first  floor,  this  is 
really  a  village),  if  any  one  has  robbed  you,  it  is  a  pity. 
You  may  lay  a  hundred  informations,  but  you  won't  re- 
cover a  centime.  You  won't  do  any  good  by  that,  I  tell 
you,  and  you  may  believe  me.  Well,  but  I  say  —  "  ex- 
claimed the  receiver,  stopping  short,  and  seeing  Madame 
de  Fermont  stagger.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  How  pale 
you  are !  Mademoiselle,  your  mother's  taken  ill !  " 
added  Micou,  just  advancing  in  time  to  catch  the  un- 
happy mother,  who,  overcome  by  this  last  shock,  felt 
her  senses  forsake  her,  —  the  forced  energy  which  had 
supported  her  so  long  failed  before  this  fresh  blow. 
154 


VICTIMS  OF  MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


"  Mother,  dear,  oh,  what  ails  you  ? "  exclaimed 
Claire,  still  in  her  bed. 

The  receiver,  still  vigorous  in  spite  of  his  fifty  years, 
seized  with  a  momentary  feeling  of  pity,  took  Madame 
de  Fermont  in  his  arms,  pushed  the  door  open  with  his 
knee,  and,  entering  the  chamber,  said : 

"  Your  pardon,  mademoiselle,  for  entering  whilst  you 
are  in  bed,  but  I  was  obliged  to  bring  in  your  mother ; 
she  has  fainted,  but  it  won't  last  long." 

On  seeing  the  man  enter,  Claire  shrieked  loudly,  and 
the  unhappy  girl  hid  herself  as  well  as  she  could  under 
the  bedclothes.  The  huckster  seated  Madame  de  Fer- 
mont in  a  chair  beside  the  bed,  and  then  went  out,  leav- 
ing the  door  ajar,  for  the  Gros-Boiteux  had  broken  the 
lock. 

One  hour  after  this  last  shock,  the  violent  malady 
which  had  so  long  hung  over  and  threatened  Madame  de 
Fermont  had  developed  itself.  A  prey  to  a  burning 
fever  and  to  fearful  delirium,  the  unhappy  woman  was 
placed  beside  her  daughter,  who,  horror-struck,  aghast, 
alone,  and  almost  as  ill  as  her  mother,  had  neither  money 
nor  recourse,  and  was  in  an  agony  of  fear  every  moment 
lest  the  ruffian  who  lodged  on  the  same  floor  should 
enter  the  apartment. 


155 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE  RUE  DE  CHAILLOT. 

We  will  precede  M.  Badinot  by  some  hours,  as  in  haste 
he  proceeded  from  the  Passage  de  la  Brasserie  to  the 
Vicomte  de  Saint-Remy.  The  latter,  as  we  have  said, 
lived  in  the  Rue  de  Chaillot,  and  occupied  a  delightful 
small  house,  built  between  the  court  and  the  garden  in 
this  quarter,  so  solitary,  although  so  close  to  the  Champs 
Elyse'es,  the  most  fashionable  promenade  in  Paris. 

It  is  useless  to  enumerate  the  advantages  which  M.  de 
Saint-Remy,  who  was  decidedly  a  man  d  bonnes  fortunes, 
derived  from  the  position  of  a  residence  so  sagaciously 
selected.  We  will  only  say  that  a  gentleman  (or  a  lady) 
could  enter  very  privately  by  a  small  door  in  the  large 
garden  which  opened  into  a  back  lane  absolutely  deserted, 
communicating  from  the  Rue  Marboeuf  to  the  Rue  de 
Chaillot.  By  wonderful  chance,  one  of  the  finest  nur- 
sery-grounds in  Paris  having  also  in  this  quiet  passage  a 
way  out  that  was  little  frequented,  the  mysterious  visi- 
tors of  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  in  case  of  a  surprise  or  sud- 
den rencounter,  were  armed  with  a  most  plausible  and 
bucolical  excuse  for  their  visit  to  the  lonely  alley :  they 
were  there  (they  might  say  if  they  pleased)  to  choose 
some  rare  flowers  from  the  celebrated  gardener  who  was 
so  renowned  for  the  beauty  of  his  conservatories.  The 
visitors  need  only  thus  tell  half  falsehoods ;  for  the  vi- 
comte, plentifully  imbued  with  all  the  tastes  of  most 
costly  luxuries,  had  a  delightful  greenhouse,  which  ex- 
tended along  the  side  of  the  alley  we  have  alluded  to. 

156 


THE  RUE  DE  CHAILLOT. 


The  small  private  door  opened  on  this  delightful  winter 
garden,  which  terminated  in  a  boudoir  (forgive  the  su- 
perannuated expression),  which  was  on  the  ground  floor 
of  the  house. 

We  may  say,  therefore,  without  metaphor,  that  a 
female  who  passed  this  dangerous  threshold,  to  enter 
M.  de  Saint-Remy's  house,  ran  to  her  ruin  through  a 
flowery  path  ;  for,  in  the  winter  particularly,  this  lonely 
alley  was  bordered  with  real  bushes  of  bright  and  per- 
fumed flowers.  Madame  de  Lucenay,  jealous  as  a  woman 
deeply  in  love  always  is,  had  demanded  the  key  of  this 
small  door. 

If  we  dwell  somewhat  on  the  general  aspect  of  this 
dwelling,  it  is  that  it  reflected  (if  we  may  be  allowed 
the  expression)  one  of  those  degrading  existences  which 
from  day  to  day  become  happily  more  rare,  but  which 
it  may  be  as  well  to  note  down  as  one  of  the  peculiarities 
of  the  epoch. 

The  interior  of  M.  de  Saint-Remy's  house  presented 
(viewed  in  this  light)  a  curious  appearance,  or  rather 
the  house  was  separated  into  two  distinct  zones,  —  the 
ground  floor,  where  he  received  his  female  visitors ;  the 
first  story,  where  he  received  his  gambling  companions 
or  his  dinner  or  hunting  associates  ;  in  a  word,  what  he 
called  his  friends.  Thus  on  the  ground  floor  was  a  bed- 
chamber, which  was  nothing  but  gold,  mirrors,  flowers, 
satin,  and  lace  ;  then  a  small  music-room,  in  which  was 
a  harp  and  piano  (M.  de  Saint-Remy  was  an  excellent 
musician)  ;  a  cabinet  of  pictures ;  and  then  the  boudoir, 
which  communicated  with  the  conservatory;  a  dining- 
room  for  two  persons,  who  were  served  and  passed  away 
the  dishes  and  plates  by  a  turning  window  ;  a  bath-room, 
a  model  of  luxury  and  Oriental  refinement;  and,  close 
at  hand,  a  small  library,  a  portion  of  which  was  arranged 
after  the  catalogue  of  that  which  La  Mettrie  had  collected 
for  Frederic  the  Great.    Such  was  this  apartment. 

It  would  be  unavailing  to  say  that  all  these  rooms, 

157 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


furnished  with  exquisite  taste,  and  with  a  Sardanapalian 
luxury,  had  as  ornaments  Watteaus  little  known ;  Bouchers 
never  engraved  :  wanton  subjects,  formerly  purchased  at 
enormous  prices.  There  were,  besides,  groups  modelled 
in  terra-cotta,  by  Clodien,  and  here  and  there,  on  plinths 
of  jasper  or  antique  breccia,  some  rare  copies,  in  white 
marble,  of  the  most  jovial  and  lovely  bacchanals  of  the 
Secret  Museum  of  Naples. 

Add  to  this,  in  summer  there  were  in  perspective  the 
green  recesses  of  a  well-planted  garden,  lonely,  replete 
with  flowers  and  birds,  watered  by  a  small  and  sparkling 
fountain,  which,  before  it  spread  itself  on  the  verdant 
turf,  fell  from  a  black  and  shaggy  rock,  scintillated  like  a 
strip  of  silver  gauze,  and  dashed  into  a  clear  basin  like 
mother-of-pearl,  where  beautiful  white  swans  wantoned 
with  grace  and  freedom. 

Then,  when  the  mild  and  serene  night  came  on,  what 
shade,  what  perfume,  what  silence,  was  there  in  those 
odorous  clumps,  whose  thick  foliage  served  as  a  dais  for 
the  rustic  seats  formed  of  reeds  and  Indian  mats. 

During  the  winter,  on  the  contrary,  except  the  glass 
door  which  opened  to  the  hothouse,  all  was  kept  close 
shut.  The  transparent  silk  of  the  blinds,  the  net  lace  of 
the  curtains,  made  the  daylight  still  more  mysterious. 
On  all  the  pieces  of  furniture  large  tufts  of  exotic  plants 
seemed  to  put  forth  their  large  flowers,  resplendent  with 
gold  and  enamel. 

In  order  to  do  the  honours  of  this  temple,  which 
seemed  raised  to  antique  Love,  or  the  denuded  divini- 
ties of  Greece,  behold  a  man,  young,  handsome,  elegant, 
and  distinguished,  —  by  turns  witty  and  tender,  romantic 
or  libertine ;  now  jesting  and  gay  to  folly,  now  full  of 
charm  and  grace ;  an  excellent  musician,  gifted  with 
one  of  those  impassioned,  vibrating  voices  which  women 
cannot  hear  without  experiencing  a  deep  impression, 
almost  physical,  —  in  fact,  a  man  essentially  made  for 
love,  —  such  was  the  vicomte.  In  Athens,  no  doubt,  he 
158 


THE  RUE  DE  CHAILLOT. 


would  have  been  admired,  exalted,  deified,  as  was  Alci- 
biades ;  in  our  days,  and  at  the  period  of  which  we  write, 
the  vicomte  was  nothing  more  than  a  base  forger,  a  con- 
temptible swindler. 

The  first  story  of  M.  de  Saint-Reiny's  house  was 
exceedingly  maseuline  in  its  whole  appearance.  It  was 
there  he  received  his  many  friends,  all  of  whom  were  of 
the  very  highest  society.  There  was  nothing  effeminate, 
nothing  coquettish.  The  furniture  was  plain,  but  elegant, 
the  ornaments  being  first-rate  weapons  of  all  sorts,  pic- 
tures of  race-horses,  who  had  won  for  the  vicomte  a 
great  number  of  magnificent  gold  and  silver  vases, 
which  were  placed  on  the  tables  and  sideboards. 

The  smoking-room  and  play-room  were  closed  by  a 
cheerful  dining-room,  where  eight  persons  (the  number 
to  which  the  guests  were  rigidly  confined  when  there 
was  a  first-class  dinner)  had  often  appreciated  the 
excellence  of  the  cook,  and  the  no  less  high  merit  of 
the  wine  of  the  vicomte,  before  they  faced  him  at  some 
high  game  of  whist  for  five  or  six  hundred  louis,  or  shook 
the  noisy  dice-box  at  infernal  hazard  or  roulette. 

These  two  widely  opposite  shades  of  M.  de  Saint-Remy 
disclosed,  the  reader  will  follow  us  into  the  regions  below, 
to  the  very  comfortable  apartment  of  Edwards  Patterson, 
the  master  of  the  horse  of  M.  cle  Saint-Remy.  who  had 
invited  M.  Boyer  to  breakfast.  A  very  pretty  English 
maid-servant  having  withdrawn  after  she  had  brought 
in  the  silver  teapot,  these  two  worthies  remained  alone. 

Edwards  was  about  forty  years  of  age.  and  never 
did  more  skilful  or  stouter  coachman  make  a  seat 
groan  under  his  most  imposing  rotundity ;  never  did 
powdered  wig  enclose  a  more  rubicund  visage :  and 
never  did  a  more  knowing  and  competent  driver  hold 
in  his  four  fingers  and  thumb  the  reins  of  a  four-in-hand. 
As  good  a  judge  of  a  horse  as  Tattersal  (and  in  his 
youth  he  had  been  as  good  a  trainer  as  the  old  and 
celebrated  Chiffney),  Edwards  had  been  to  the  vicomte 
159 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


a  most  excellent  coachman,  and  a  man  perfectly  capable 
of  superintending  the  training  of  race-horses  on  which 
he  had  betted  heavily. 

When  he  did  not  assume  his  sumptuous  brown  and 
silver  livery  on  the  emblazoned  hammercloth  of  his  box, 
Edwards  very  much  resembled  an  honest  English  farmer ; 
and  it  is  under  this  aspect  that  we  shall  present  him  to 
the  reader,  adding,  at  the  same  time,  that  beneath  this 
round  and  red  visage  there  lurked  all  the  pitiless  and 
devilish  cunning  of  the  horse-dealer. 

M.  Boyer,  his  guest,  the  confidential  servant  of  the 
vicomte,  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  gray,  smooth  hair, 
bald  forehead,  cunning  glance,  with  a  countenance  calm, 
discreet,  and  reserved.  He  expressed  himself  in  some- 
what choice  phraseology,  with  polite,  easy  manners ;  he 
was  tolerably  well  informed,  his  political  opinions  being 
legitimist,  and  he  could  take  his  part  as  first  violin  in  an 
amateur  quartette.  From  time  to  time,  and  with  the 
best  air  in  the  world,  he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  from  a 
gold  snuff-box,  set  around  with  fine  pearls,  after  which 
he  negligently  shook  with  the  back  of  his  hand  (as  white 
and  carefully  attended  to  as  his  master's)  the  particles 
of  snuff  from  the  frill  of  his  fine  Holland  shirt. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Edwards,"  said  Boyer,  "  that 
your  maid,  Betty,  really  does  your  meals  in  a  very  fair 
manner !  Ma  foi  !  now  and  then  one  gets  tired  of  high 
living." 

"  The  fact  is  that  Betty  is  a  very  good  girl,"  said 
Edwards,  who  spoke  very  good  French.  "  I  shall  take 
her  with  me  into  my  establishment,  if  I  make  up  my 
mind  to  set  up  in  housekeeping ;  and  on  this  point,  since 
we  are  alone,  my  dear  Boyer,  let  us  talk  of  business 
matters  which  you  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Why,  yes,  tolerably,"  said  Boyer,  modestly  taking  a 
pinch  of  snuff,  "  one  learns  them  so  naturally,  when  they 
are  the  affairs  of  others  that  occupy  us." 

"  I  want  your  advice  on  a  very  important  point,  and 
160 


THE  RUE  DE  CHAILLOT. 


that's  the  reason  I  have  begged  you  to  come  and  take  a 
cup  of  tea  with  me." 

"  I'm  at  your  service,  my  dear  Edwards." 

"  You  know  that,  besides  the  race-horses,  I  had  an 
agreement  with  M.  le  Vicomte  to  the  complete  providing 
of  his  stable,  horses,  and  men,  that  is  to  say,  eight  horses 
and  five  or  six  grooms  and  boys,  for  twenty-four  thousand 
francs  (nine  thousand  guineas)  a  year,  including  my 
wages." 

"  That  was  moderate  enough." 

"  For  four  years  M.  le  Vicomte  paid  me  very  regu- 
larly ;  but  about  the  middle  of  last  year  he  said  to  me, 
'  Edwards,  I  owe  you  about  twenty-four  thousand  francs. 
What  value,  at  the  lowest,  do  you  set  on  my  horses  and 
carriages  ? '  '  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,  the  eight  horses 
ought  to  fetch  three  thousand  francs  (120Z.)  each,  one 
with  another,  and  that  would  make  (and  it's  true,  Boyer, 
for  the  pair  of  phaeton  horses  cost  five  hundred  guineas) 
exactly  twenty-four  thousand  francs  for  the  horses.  As 
to  the  carriages,  there  are  four,  let  us  say,  for  twelve 
thousand  francs ;  that,  added  to  the  twenty-four  thousand 
francs  for  the  horses,  makes  thirty-six  thousand  francs.' 
'  Well,'  replied  the  vicomte,  '  buy  the  whole  of  me  at 
that  price,  on  condition  that  for  the  twelve  thousand 
francs  which  you  will  owe  me,  paid  as  it  were  in  advance, 
you  shall  keep  and  place  at  my  disposal  horses,  servants, 
and  carriages  for  six  months.'  " 

"  And  you  very  wisely  acceded  to  the  proposal,  Ed- 
wards ?    It  was  a  golden  gain  to  you." 

"  No  doubt.  In  another  fortnight  the  six  months  will 
have  expired,  and  I  become  proprietor  of  the  horses  and 
carriages." 

"  Nothing  plainer.  The  agreement  was  drawn  up  by 
M.  BadiDot,  the  vicomte's  man  of  business,  what  do  you 
want  with  my  advice  ?  " 

"  What  should  I  do  ?  To  sell  the  horses  and  carriages 
in  consequence  of  M.  le  Vicomte's  departure  ?  All 
161 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


would  sell  well,  as  he  is  known  as  one  of  the  first  judges 
in  Paris ;  or  ought  I  to  set  up  as  a  horse-dealer  with  my 
stud,  which  would  make  a  capital  beginning  ?  What 
is  your  opinion  —  your  advice  ?  " 

"  I  advise  you  to  do  what  I  shall  do  myself." 

"  In  what  way  ? " 

"  I  am  in  the  same  position  as  yourself." 

«  You  ? " 

"  M.  le  Vicomte  detests  details.  When  I  entered  in 
his  service  I  had,  by  savings  and  inheritance,  sixty  thou- 
sand francs  (2,400L).  I  paid  the  expenses  of  the  house 
as  you  did  of  the  stables ;  and  every  year  M.  le  Vicomte 
paid  me  without  examining  my  account.  At  nearly  the 
same  time  as  yourself  I  found  myself  out  of  pocket 
about  twenty  thousand  francs  on  my  own  account,  and, 
to  the  tradespeople,  sixty  thousand  francs.  Then  M.  le 
Vicomte  made  me  the  same  proposition  as  to  yourself, 
in  order  to  reimburse  me.  I  was  to  sell  the  furniture 
of  the  house,  including  the  plate,  which  is  very  hand- 
some, very  fine  paintings,  etc.,  the  whole  estimated 
at  a  hundred  and  forty  thousand  francs  (5,600L).  There 
were  eighty  thousand  francs  to  pay,  and  there  remained 
sixty  thousand  francs  which  I  was  to  disburse  until  they 
were  quite  exhausted,  in  the  expenses  of  the  table,  the 
servants'  wages,  etc.,  and  in  nothing  else.  These  were 
the  terms  of  the  agreement." 

"  Because  on  that  outlay  you  have  a  profit." 

"  As  a  matter  of  course ;  for  I  made  all  the  agree- 
ments with  the  tradespeople,  whom  I  shall  not  pay  until 
after  the  sale,"  said  Boyer,  taking  a  huge  pinch  of  snuff ; 
"  so  that  at  the  end  of  this  month  —  " 

"  The  furniture  is  yours,  as  the  horses  and  carriages 
are  mine." 

"  Precisely  so.    M.  le  Vicomte  has  gained  by  this,  by 
living  for  the  last  few  months  as  he  likes  to  live,  en 
grand  seigneur,  —  and  that  in  the  very' teeth  of  his 
creditors;  for  furniture,  plate,  horses,  carriages,  which 
162 


THE  RUE  DE  CHAILLOT. 


had  all  been  paid  for  ready  money  when  he  came  of 
age,  have  now  become  the  property  of  yourself  and 
myself." 

"  And  so  M.  le  Yicomte  is  really  ruined  ?  " 
"  In  five  years." 

"  And  M.  le  Yicomte  inherited  —  " 

"  Only  a  miserable  million  (40,000?.),  ready  money," 
said  M.  Boyer,  with  a  disdainful  air,  and  taking  a  pinch 
of  snuff.  "  Add  to  this  two  hundred  thousand  francs 
of  debts  (8,000?.),  about  — that's  pretty  well!  It  was, 
therefore,  to  tell  you,  my  dear  Edwards,  that  I  had  an 
intention  of  letting  this  house,  so  admirably  furnished  as 
it  is,  to  some  English  family,  linen,  glass,  china,  silver, 
conservatory.  Some  of  your  country-people  would  pay 
a  good  rent  for  it  ? " 

"  Unquestionably.    Why  don't  you  do  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  there's  considerable  risk,  and  so  I  make  up 
my  mind  to  sell  the  whole  at  once.  M.  le  Vicomte  is 
also  known  as  a  connoisseur  in  first-class  furniture  and 
objects  of  art,  so  that  anything  that  he  has  selected 
will  always  fetch  double  its  value,  and  I  am  safe  to 
realise  a  large  sum.  Do  as  I  do,  Edwards,  and  realise 
—  realise.  Don't  risk  your  profits  in  speculation.  You, 
first  coachman  of  M.  le  Yicomte  de  Saint-Remy,  —  why, 
there'll  be  a  competition  for  you.  And  yesterday  I  just 
heard  of  a  minor  who  has  recently  been  emancipated,  a 
cousin  of  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Lucenay,  the  young 
Due  de  Montbrison,  who  has  just  arrived  from  Italy 
with  his  tutor,  and  is  forming  his  establishment.  Two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  livres  of  income  (10,000?.) 
from  land,  my  dear  Edwards,  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  livres  a  year,  —  just  entering  into  life, — 
twenty  years  of  age  only,  —  with  all  the  illusions  of 
simple  confidence,  and  all  the  desires  of  expenditure, — 
prodigal  as  a  prince.  I  know  the  steward ;  and  I  tell 
you,  in  confidence,  he  has  all  but  concluded  with  me  as 
first  valet  de  chambre.  He  patronises  me,  —  the  fool !  " 
163 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


And  M.  Boyer  shrugged  his  shoulders,  whilst  he  inhaled 
another  large  pinch  of  snuff. 
"  You  hope  to  get  rid  of  him  ?  " 

"  Parbleu,  he  is  a  jackanapes,  —  an  ass !  He  places 
me  there  as  if  he  ought  not  to  have  any  fears  of  me. 
Before  two  months  I  shall  be  in  his  place." 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  livres  a  year  in 
land !  "  replied  Edwards,  reflecting ;  "  and  a  young  man ! 
It  is  a  good  house  ? " 

"  I  tell  you  there  is  everything  to  make  a  man  com- 
fortable. I  will  speak  to  my  protector  for  you,"  said 
M.  Boyer,  with  irony.  "  Take  the  place  ;  it  is  a  fortune 
which  has  roots  to  it,  and  one  may  hold  on  by  it  for  a 
long  time.  It  is  not  like  the  unfortunate  million  of 
M.  le  Vicomte,  a  snowball,  and  nothing  else,  —  a  ray 
of  a  Parisian  sun,  and  that's  all.  I  soon  saw  that  I 
should  only  be  a  bird  of  passage  here.  It's  a  pity,  for 
the  establishment  did  us  credit ;  and,  to  the  last  moment, 
I  will  serve  M.  le  Vicomte  with  the  respect  and  esteem 
due  to  him." 

"Ma  foi,  my  dear  Boyer,  I  thank  you,  and  accept 
your  proposition.  And,  now  I  think  of  it,  suppose  I 
were  to  propose  the  stud  of  M.  le  Vicomte  to  this  young 
duke !  It  is  all  ready,  and  known  and  admired  all  over 
Paris." 

"  True,  you  may  make  a  profitable  affair  of  it." 

"  And  you,  why  don't  you  propose  to  him  this  house 
so  admirably  fitted  up  in  every  way  ?  What  could  he 
find  better  ? " 

"  Bravo  !  Edwards,  you  are  a  man  of  sense  decidedly ; 
you  have  suggested  a  most  excellent  idea.  We  must 
ask  the  vicomte ;  he  is  such  a  good  master  that  he  will 
not  refuse  to  speak  for  us  to  the  young  duke.  He  may 
say  that,  as  he  is  going  on  the  legation  of  Gerolstein,  to 
which  he  is  attached,  he  wishes  to  get  rid  of  his  whole 
establishment.  Let  us  see.  One  hundred  and  sixty 
thousand  francs  for  the  house  furnished,  twenty  thou- 
164 


THE  RUE  DE  CHAILLOT. 


sand  francs  for  plate  and  pictures,  fifty  thousand  francs 
for  stable  and  carriages,  that  makes  two  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand  francs ;  and  it  is  a  bargain  for  a  young 
man  who  wishes  to  be  set  up  at  once  in  the  first 
style." 

"  And  the  horses !  " 

"  And  the  capital  table !  Gallefroi,  his  cook,  will 
leave  a  hundred  times  better  off  than  when  he  came 
here  first.  M.  le  Vicomte  has  given  him  capital  instruc- 
tion, —  has  regularly  refined  him  !  " 

"  They  say,  too,  that  M.  le  Yicomte  is  such  a  capital 
player  ?  " 

"  Admirable !  Gaining  large  sums  with  even  more 
indifference  than  he  loses  them !  And  yet  I  never  saw 
any  one  lose  with  better  taste ! " 

"  And  the  women,  Boyer,  —  the  women !  Ah,  you 
could  tell  a  tale !  You  have  the  sole  entree  to  the 
apartments  of  the  ground  floor  —  " 

"I  have  my  secrets  as  you  have  yours,  my  dear 
fellow." 

«  Mine?" 

"  When  M.  le  Vicomte  ran  his  horses,  had  you  not 
yonr  confidences  ?  I  will  not  attack  the  honesty  of  the 
jockeys  of  your  opponents  ;  but  there  were  reports  —  " 

"  Hush,  my  dear  Boyer,  a  gentleman  never  compro- 
mises the  reputation  of  a  jockey  who  is  against  him, 
and  has  the  weakness  to  listen  —  " 

"  Then  a  gallant  never  compromises  the  reputation 
of  a  woman  who  has  been  kind  to  him.  So,  I  say,  let's 
keep  our  secrets,  or,  rather,  the  secrets  of  M.  le  Vicomte, 
my  dear  Edwards." 

"  Ah,  good !    What  will  he  do  now  ?  " 

"  He  is  going  to  Germany  in  a  good  travelling  car- 
riage, with  seven  or  eight  thousand  francs,  which  he 
knows  when  to  lay  his  hand  upon.  '  Oh,  I  have  no  fears 
for  the  vicomte !  He  is  one  of  those  personages  who 
always  fall  on  their  feet,  as  they  say." 

165 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  And  he  has  no  future  expectancies  ? " 
"  None  ;  for  his  father  has  nothing  but  just  enough  to 
live  upon." 

"His  father?" 
"  Certainly." 

"  M.  le  Vicomte's  father  is  not  dead  ? " 
"  He  was  not  dead  five  or  six  months  ago  when  M.  le 
Vicomte  wrote  to  him  for  some  family  papers." 
"  But  we  never  see  him  here  ? " 

"  For  reasons  good.  For  fifteen  years  he  has  resided 
in  the  country  at  Angers." 

"  But  M.  le  Vicomte  never  visits  him  ?  " 
«  His  father?" 
"  Yes." 

"  Never — never !  " 

"  Have  they  quarrelled,  then  ?  " 

"  What  I  am  going  to  tell  you  is  no  secret,  for  I  have 
it  from  the  old  man  of  business  of  M.  the  Prince  de 
Noirmont." 

"Father  of  Madame  de  Lucenay?"  said  Edwards, 
with  a  knowing  glance  at  Boyer,  who,  appearing  not  to 
understand  him,  replied  coolly  : 

"  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Lucenay  is  the  daughter 
of  M.  the  Prince  de  Noirmont.  The  father  of  M.  le 
Vicomte  was  bosom  friend  of  the  prince.  Madame  la 
Duchesse  was  then  very  young,  and  M.  de  Saint-Re  my, 
senior,  who  was  very  fond  of  her,  treated  her  as  if  she 
were  his  own  child.  I  learnt  these  details  from  Simon, 
the  prince's  man  of  business ;  and  I  may  speak  unhesi- 
tatingly, for  the  adventure  I  am  about  to  narrate  to  you 
was,  at  the  time,  the  talk  of  all  Paris.  In  spite  of  his 
sixty  years,  the  father  of  M.  le  Vicomte  is  a  man  of 
iron  disposition,  with  the  courage  of  a  lion,  of  probity 
which  I  call  almost  fabulous.  He  had  scarcely  any 
property  of  his  own,  and  had  married  the  vicomte's 
mother  for  love.  She  was  a  young  person  of  good 
fortune,  possessing  about  a  million  of  francs,  at  the 
106 


THE  RUE  DE  CHAILLOT. 


melting  of  which  we  have  had  the  honour  to  be  present." 
And  M.  Boyer  bowed.    Edwards  imitated  him. 

"  The  marriage  was  a  very  happy  one,  until  the 
moment  when  the  father  of  M.  le  Vicomte  found  — 
accidentally,  as  they  say  —  some  letters,  which  proved 
that,  during  one  of  his  absences  three  or  four  years 
after  his  marriage,  his  wife  had  had  an  attachment  for 
a  certain  Polish  count." 

"That  often  happens  to  these  Poles.  When  I  was 
at  the  Marquis.de  Senneval's,  the  marquise,  a  regular 
she-devil  —  " 

"My  dear  Edwards,"  interrupted  M.  Boyer,  "you 
should  learn  the  alliances  of  our  great  families  before 
you  speak,  or  you  will  sadly  blunder." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Senneval  is  sister  of  M.  le 
Due  de  Montbrison,  into  whose  establishment  you  wish 
to  enter." 

"  Ah,  the  devil !  " 

"  Judge  of  the  effect  if  you  had  spoken  thus  of  her 
before  tattling  people !  You  would  not  have  remained 
in  the  house  twenty-four  hours." 

"  True,  Boyer ;  I  must  endeavour  to  '  get  up '  my 
peerage." 

"  I  resume.  The  father  of  M.  le  Vicomte  discovered, 
after  twelve  or  fifteen  years  of  a  marriage  very  happy 
until  then,  that  he  had  this  Polish  count  to  complain  of. 
Fortunately,  or  unfortunately,  M.  le  Vicomte  was  born 
nine  months  after  his  father,  or  rather  M.  le  Comte  de 
Saint-Remy,  had  returned  from  this  unpropitious  journey, 
so  that  he  could  not  be  certain,  in  spite  of  the  greatest 
probabilities,  whether  or  not  M.  le  Vicomte  could  fairly 
charge  him  with  paternity.  However,  the  comte  sepa- 
rated instantly  from  his  wife,  would  not  touch  a  stiver 
of  the  fortune  she  had  brought  him,  and  returned  into 
the  country  with  about  eighty  thousand  francs  which  he 
possessed  of  his  own.  But  you  have  yet  to  learn  the 
i67 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


rancour  of  this  diabolical  character.  Although  the  out- 
rage had  been  perpetrated  fifteen  years  when  he  detected 
it,  the  father  of  M.  le  Vicomte,  accompanied  by  M.  de 
Fermont,  one  of  his  relatives,  sought  out  this  Polonese 
seducer,  and  found  him  at  Venice,  after  having  sought 
for  him  during  eighteen  months  in  every  city  in  Europe." 
"  What  determination  !  " 

"  A  demon's  rancour,  I  say,  my  dear  Edwards !  At 
Venice  there  was  a  ferocious  duel,  in  which  the  Pole 
was  killed.  All  passed  off  honourably ;  but  they  tell 
me  that,  when  the  father  of  M.  le  Vicomte  saw  the 
Pole  fall  at  his  feet  mortally  wounded,  he  exhibited  such 
ferocious  joy  that  his  relative,  M.  de  Fermont,  was 
obliged  to  take  him  away  from  the  place  of  combat; 
the  comte  wishing,  as  he  declared,  to  see  his  enemy  die 
before  his  eyes." 

"  What  a  man !    What  a  man ! " 

"  The  comte  returned  to  Paris,  saw  his  wife,  told  her 
he  had  killed  the  Pole,  and  went  back  into  the  country. 
Since  that  time  he  never  saw  her  or  her  son,  and  resided 
at  Angers,  where  he  lived,  as  they  say,  like  a  regular  old 
wolf,  with  what  was  left  of  his  eighty  thousand  francs, 
which  had  been  sweated  down  not  a  little,  as  you  may 
suppose,  by  his  chase  after  the  Pole.  At  Angers  he  saw 
no  one,  unless  it  were  the  wife  and  daughter  of  his 
relative,  M.  de  Fermont,  who  has  been  dead  some  years 
now.  Besides,  it  was  an  unfortunate  family,  for  the 
brother  of  Madame  de  Fermont  blew  his  brains  out 
some  months  ago." 

"  And  the  mother  of  M.  le  Vicomte  ?  " 

"  He  lost  her  a  long  time  ago  ;  that's  the  reason  that, 
when  he  attained  his  majority,  M.  le  Vicomte  came  into 
his  mother's  fortune.  So,  you  see,  my  dear  Edwards, 
that,  as  to  inheritance,  the  vicomte  has  nothing,  or 
almost  less  than  nothing,  to  expect  from  his  father." 

"  Who,  moreover,  detests  him." 

"  He  never  would  see  him  after  the  discovery  in  ques- 
168 


THE  RUE  DE  CHAILLOT. 


tion,  being  fully  persuaded,  no  doubt,  that  he  is  the  son 
of  the  Pole." 

The  conversation  of  these  two  personages  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  gigantic  footman,  elaborately  powdered, 
although  it  was  scarcely  eleven  o'clock. 

"  M.  Boyer,  M.  le  Vicomte  has  rung  his  bell  twice," 
said  the  giant. 

Boyer  appeared  immensely  distressed  at  having  appar- 
ently been  inattentive  to  his  duty,  rose  hastily,  and  fol- 
lowed the  footman  with  as  much  haste  and  respect  as 
if  he  had  not  been  himself,  in  his  proper  person,  the 
proprietor  of  his  master's  house. 


169 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE  COMTE  DE  SAINT  -  EEMY. 

It  was  about  two  hours  after  Boyer  had  left  Edwards 
to  go  to  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  when  the  father  of  the  latter 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Chaillot. 

M.  de  Saint-Remy,  senior,  was  a  tall  man,  still  active 
and  vigorous  in  spite  of  his  age.  The  extreme  darkness 
of  his  complexion  contrasted  singularly  with  the  pecul- 
iar whiteness  of  his  beard  and  hair ;  his  thick  eyebrows 
still  remained  black,  and  half  covered  his  piercing  eyes 
deeply  sunk  in  his  head.  Although  from  a  kind  of  mis- 
anthropic feeling  he  wore  clothes  which  were  extremely 
shabby,  yet  there  was  in  his  entire  appearance  something 
so  calm  and  dignified  as  to  inspire  general  respect. 

The  door  of  his  son's  house  opened,  and  he  went  in. 

A  porter  in  dress  livery  of  brown  and  silver,  with  his 
hair  carefully  powdered,  and  dressed  in  silk  stockings, 
appeared  on  the  threshold  of  an  elegant  lodge,  which 
resembled  the  smoky  cave  of  the  Pipelets  as  much  as 
does  the  tub  of  a  stocking-darner  the  splendid  shop  of  a 
fashionable  dressmaker. 

"  M.  de  Saint-Remy  ? "  said  the  comte,  in  an  abrupt 
tone. 

The  porter,  instead  of  replying,  scrutinised  with  imper- 
tinent curiosity  the  white  beard,  the  threadbare  frock  coat, 
and  the  napless  hat  of  the  unknown,  who  held  a  stout 
cane  in  his  hand. 

"  M.  de  Saint-Remy  ? "  again  said  the  comte,  impa- 
tiently, and  much  irritated  at  the  insolent  demeanour  of 
the  porter. 

170 


THE  COMTE  DE  SAINT  -  REMY. 


"  M.  le  Vicomte  is  not  at  home." 

So  saying,  the  co-mate  of  M.  Pipelet  opened  the  door, 
and,  with  a  significant  gesture,  invited  the  unknown  to 
retire. 

"  I  will  wait  for  him,"  said  the  comte,  and  he  moved 
forward. 

"  Holloa!  Come,  I  say,  my  friend,  that's  not  the  way 
people  enter  other  people's  houses ! "  exclaimed  the 
porter,  running  after  the  comte,  and  taking  him  by 
the  arm. 

"  What,  fellow  !  "  replied  the  old  man,  with  a  threat- 
ening air,  and  lifting  his  cane,  "  dare  you  to  lay  your 
hands  on  me?" 

"  I  dare  do  more  than  that  if  you  do  not  be  off 
quickly.  I  tell  you  the  vicomte  is  not  within ;  so  now 
go  away,  will  you  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Boyer,  attracted  by  the  sound  of 
contending  voices,  appeared  on  the  steps  which  led 
to  the  house. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  noise  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  M.  Boyer,  it  is  this  man,  who  will  go  into  the  house, 
although  I  have  told  him  that  M.  le  Yicomte  is  not 
within." 

"  Hold  your  tongue  ! "  said  the  comte.  And  then 
addressing  Boyer,  who  had  come  towards  them,  "  I 
wish  to  see  my  son.  He  is  out,  and  therefore  I  will 
wait  for  him." 

We  have  already  said  that  Boyer  was  neither  ignorant 
of  the  existence  nor  the  misanthropy  of  his  master's 
father;  and  being,  moreover,  a  physiognomist,  he  did 
not  for  a  moment  doubt  the  comte's  identity,  but,  bowing 
respectfully,  replied : 

"  If  M.  le  Comte  will  follow  me,  I  will  conduct  him  —  " 

"  Very  well !  "  said  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  who  followed 
Boyer,  to  the  extreme  amazement  of  the  porter. 

Preceded  by  the  valet  de  chambre,  the  comte  reached 
the  first  story,  and  followed  his  guide  across  the  small 
171 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


sitting-room  of  Florestan  de  Saint-Remy  (we  shall  in 
future  call  the  viscount '  by  his  baptismal  name  to  dis- 
tinguish him  more  easily  from  his  father)  until  they 
reached  a  small  antechamber  communicating  with  the 
sitting-room,  and  sitting  immediately  over  the  boudoir 
on  the  ground  floor. 

"  M.  le  Vicomte  was  obliged  to  go  out  this  morning," 
said  Boyer.  "  If  M.  le  Comte  will  be  so  kind  as  to  wait 
a  little  for  him,  he  will  not  be  long  before  he  comes  in." 
And  the  valet  de  ehambre  quitted  the  apartment. 

Left  alone,  the  count  looked  about  him  with  entire 
indifference  ;  but  suddenly  he  started,  his  face  became 
animated,  his  cheeks  grew  purple,  and  anger  agitated 
his  features.  His  eyes  had  lighted  on  the  portrait  of 
his  wife,  the  mother  of  Florestan  de  Saint-Remy  !  He 
folded  his  arms  across  his  breast,  bowed  his  head,  as  if 
to  escape  this  sight,  and  strode  rapidly  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"  This  is  strange  !  "  he  said.  "  That  woman  is  dead  — 
I  killed  her  lover  —  and  yet  my  wound  is  as  deep,  as 
sensitive,  as  the  first  day  I  received  it;  my  thirst  of 
vengeance  is  not  yet  quenched  ;  my  savage  misanthropy, 
which  has  all  but  entirely  isolated  me  from  the  world, 
has  left  me  alone,  and  in  constant  contemplation  of  the 
thought  of  my  injury.  Yes  ;  for  the  death  of  the  accom- 
plice of  this  infamy  has  avenged  the  outrage,  but  not 
effaced  its  memory  from  my  remembrance.  Oh,  yes  !  I 
feel  that  what  renders  my  hatred  inextinguishable  is  the 
thought  that,  for  fifteen  years,  I  was  a  dupe  ;  that  for 
fifteen  years  I  treated  with  respect  and  esteem  a  wretched 
woman  who  had  infamously  betrayed  me ;  that  I  have 
loved  her  son  —  the  son  of  crime  —  as  if  he  had  indeed 
been  my  own  child ;  for  the  aversion  with  which  Flores- 
tan now  inspires  me  proves  but  too  clearly  that  he  is  the 
offspring  of  adultery  !  And  yet  I  have  not  the  absolute 
conviction  of  his  illegitimacy  :  it  is  just  possible  that  he 
is  still  my  child !  And  sometimes  that  thought  is  agony 
172 


THE  COMTE  DE  SAINT -REMY. 


to  me  !  If  he  were  indeed  my  son  !  Then  my  abandon- 
ment of  him,  the  coldness  I  have  always  testified  towards 
him,  my  constant  refusals  to  see  him,  are  unpardonable. 
But,  after  all,  he  is  rich,  young,  happy ;  and  of  what  use 
should  I  be  to  him  ?  Yes  ;  but  then,  perchance,  his  ten- 
derness might  have  soothed  the  bitter  anguish  which  his 
mother  has  caused  me!" 

After  a  moment  of  deep  reflection  the  comte  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  continued : 

"  Still  these  foolish  suppositions,  weak  as  useless,  which 
revive  all  my  suffering !  Let  me  be  a  man,  and  overcome 
the  absurd  and  painful  emotion  which  I  experience  when 
I  think  that  I  am  again  about  to  see  him  whom,  for  ten 
years,  I  have  loved  with  the  most  mad  idolatry,  —  whom 
I  have  loved  as  my  son ;  he  —  he  —  the  son  of  the  man 
whose  blood  I  saw  flow  with  such  intense  joy  !  And  they 
would  not  let  me  be  present  at  his  last  agony,  —  at  his 
death !  Ah,  they  know  not  what  it  was  to  have  been 
stricken  as  deeply  as  I  was !  Then,  too,  to  think  that 
my  name  —  always  honoured  and  respected  —  should 
have  been  so  often  mentioned  with  scoff  and  derision,  as 
is  always  mentioned  that  of  a  wronged  husband!  To 
think  that  my  name  —  a  name  of  which  I  had  always 
been  so  proud  —  should  now  belong  to  a  man  whose 
father's  heart  I  could  have  plucked  out!  Ah,  I  only 
wonder  I  do  not  go  mad  when  I  think  of  it ! " 

M.  de  Saint-Remy  continued  walking  up  and  down  in 
great  agitation,  and  mechanically  lifted  up  the  curtain 
which  separated  the  apartment  in  which  he  was  from 
Florestan's  private  sitting-room,  and  advanced  several 
strides  into  that  chamber. 

He  had  disappeared  for  the  moment,  when  a  small 
door  hidden  in  the  hangings  of  the  wall  opened  softly, 
and  Madame  de  Lucenay,  wrapped  in  a  large  green  cash- 
mere shawl,  having  a  very  plain  black  velvet  bonnet  on, 
entered  the  salon,  which  the  comte  had  but  that  instant 
quitted. 

173 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


It  is  necessary  to  offer  some  explanation  of  this  unex- 
pected visit. 

Florestan  de  Saint-Remy  on  the  previous  evening  made 
an  appointment  with  the  duchess  for  the  next  morning. 
She  having,  as  we  have  said,  a  key  of  the  little  gate  in 
the  narrow  lane,  had,  as  usual,  entered  by  the  conserva- 
tory, relying  on  finding  Florestan  on  the  ground  floor 
boudoir ;  but,  not  finding  him  there,  she  believed  (as  had 
before  occurred)  that  the  vicomte  was  engaged  in  his 
cabinet. 

A  secret  staircase  led  from  the  boudoir  to  the  story 
above.  Madame  de  Lucenay  went  up  without  hesitation, 
supposing  that  M.  de  Saint-Remy  had  given  orders,  as 
usual,  to  be  denied  to  everybody.  Unluckily,  a  threaten- 
ing call  from  M.  Badinot  had  compelled  Florestan  to  go 
out  hastily,  and  he  had  forgotten  his  rendezvous  with 
Madame  de  Lucenay.  She,  not  seeing  any  person,  was 
about  to  enter  the  cabinet,  when  the  curtain  was  thrown 
on  one  side,  and  the  duchess  found  herself  confronted 
with  Florestan's  father. 

She  could  not  repress  a  shriek. 

"  Clotilde !  "  exclaimed  the  comte,  greatly  astonished. 

Intimately  acquainted  with  the  Prince  de  Noirmont, 
father  of  Madame  de  Lucenay,  M.  de  Saint-Remy  had 
known  her  from  her  childhood,  and,  during  her  girlhood, 
calling  her,  as  he  now  did,  by  her  baptismal  name.  The 
duchess,  motionless  with  surprise,  continued  gazing  on 
the  old  man  with  his  white  beard  and  mean  attire,  whose 
features  she  could  not  recall  to  mind. 

"  You,  Clotilde ! "  repeated  the  comte,  in  an  accent 
of  painful  reproach ;  "  you  here,  in  my  son's  house !  " 

These  last  words  confirmed  the  vague  reminiscence 
of  Madame  de  Lucenay,  who  then  recognised  Florestan's 
father,  and  said : 

"  M.  de  Saint-Remy?" 

The  position  was  so  plain  and  declaratory  that  the 
duchess,  whose  peculiar  and  resolute  character  is  known 
174 


THE  COMTE  DE  SAINT- REM Y. 


to  the  reader,  disdained  to  have  recourse  to  false- 
hood, in  order  to  account  for  her  appearance  there ;  and, 
relying  on  the  really  paternal  affection  which  the  comte 
had  always  testified  for  her,  she  said  to  him,  with  that 
air  at  once  graceful,  cordial,  and  decided,  which  was  so 
peculiarly  her  own  :  " 

"  Come,  now,  do  not  scold ;  you  are  my  old,  very  old 
friend.  Recollect  you  called  me  your  dear  little  Clotilde 
at  least  twenty  years  ago." 

"  Yes,  I  called  you  so  then ;  but  —  " 

"  I  know  beforehand  all  you  would  say :  you  know  my 
motto, '  What  is,  is  what  will  be.'  " 

«  Oh,  Clotilde  !  " 

"  Spare  your  reproaches,  and  let  me  rather  express 
my  extreme  delight  at  seeing  you  again :  your  presence 
reminds  me  of  so  many  things,  —  my  poor  dear  father, 
in  the  first  place,  and  then  —  heigho  !  my  '  sweet  fifteen  ! ' 
Oh,  how  delightful  it  is  to  be  fifteen  !  " 

"  It  is  because  your  father  was  my  friend  that  —  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  duchess,  interrupting  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy,  "  he  was  so  very  fond  of  you !  You  remember  he 
always  called  you  the  man  with  the  green  ribands,  and 
you  always  told  him,  c  You  spoil  Clotilde ;  mind,  I  tell 
you  so ; '  and  he  replied,  whilst  he  kissed  me,  '  I  really 
do  believe  I  spoil  her,  and  I  must  make  all  haste  and 
double  my  spoiling,  for  very  soon  the  world  will  deprive 
me  of  her  to  spoil  her  in  their  turn.'  Dear  father !  What 
a  friend  I  lost ! "  and  a  tear  started  to  the  lovely  eyes 
of  Madame  de  Lucenay ;  then,  extending  her  hand  to 
M.  de  Saint-Remy,  she  said,  in  a  faltering  voice,  "  But 
indeed,  in  truth,  I  am  happy,  very  happy,  to  see  you 
again,  you  call  up  such  precious  remembrances, — 
memories  so  dear  to  my  heart!" 

The  comte,  although  he  had  long  been  acquainted 
with  her  original  and  decisive  disposition,  was  really 
amazed  at  the  ease  with  which  Clotilde  reconciled  her- 
self to  her  exceedingly  delicate  position,  which  was  no 
175 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARTS. 


other  than  to  meet  her  lover's  father  in  her  lover's 
house. 

"  If  you  have  been  in  Paris  for  any  time,"  continued 
Madame  de  Lucenay,  "  it  is  very  naughty  of  you  not  to 
have  come  and  seen  me  before  this ;  for  we  should  have 
had  such  long  talks  over  the  past ;  for  you  must  know 
that  I  have  reached  an  age  when  there  is  an  exces- 
sive pleasure  in  saying  to  old  friends,  '  Don't  you 
remember ! '  " 

Assuredly  the  duchess  could  not  have  discoursed  with 
more  confirmed  tranquillity  if  she  were  receiving  a 
morning  visit  at  the  HStel  de  Lucenay.  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy  could  not  prevent  himself  from  saying  with 
severity : 

"  Instead  of  talking  of  the  past,  it  would  be  more  fit- 
ting to  discourse  of  the  present.  My  son  is  expected 
every  instant,  and  —  " 

"  No,"  said  Clotilde,  interrupting  him,  "  I  have  the 
key  of  the  little  door  of  the  conservatory,  and  his  arrival 
is  always  announced  by  a  ring  of  the  bell  when  he 
returns  by  the  principal  entrance ;  and  at  that  sound  I 
shall  disappear  as  mysteriously  as  I  arrived,  and  will 
leave  you  to  all  your  pleasure,  at  again  seeing  Florestan. 
What  a  delightful  surprise  you  will  give  him !  For  it  is 
so  long  since  you  forsook  him.  Really,  now  I  think  of 
it,  it  is  I  who  have  to  reproach  you." 

" Me ?  Reproach  me?" 

"  Assuredly.  What  guide,  what  aid  had  he,  when  he 
entered  on  the  world  ?  whilst  there  are  a  thousand 
things  for  which  a  father's  counsels  are  indispensable. 
So,  really  and  truly,  it  is  very  wrong  of  you  —  " 

Here  Madame  de  Lucenay,  yielding  to  the  whimsi- 
cality of  her  character,  could  not  help  laughing  most 
heartily,  and  saying  to  the  comte : 

"  It  must  be  owned  that  our  position  is  at  least  an  odd 
one,  and  that  it  is  very  funny  that  it  should  be  I  who 
am  sermonising  you." 

176 


THE  COMTE  DE  SAINT -REMY. 


"  Why,  it  does  seem  very  strange  to  me,  I  assure  you; 
but  I  deserve  neither  your  sermons  nor  your  praises.  I 
have  come  to  my  son's  house,  but  not  for  my  son's  sake. 
At  his  age,  he  has  not,  or  has  no  longer,  any  need  of  my 
advice." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  know  the  reason  for  which  I  hold 
the  world,  and  Paris,  especially,  in  such  horror,"  said 
the  comte,  with  a  painful  and  distressing  expression ; 
"  and  you  may  therefore  believe  that  nothing  but  cir- 
cumstances of  the  utmost  importance  could  have  induced 
me  to  leave  Angers  and  have  come  hither  —  to  this 
house.  But  I  have  been  forced  to  overcome  my  repug- 
nance, and  have  recourse  to  everybody  who  could  aid  or 
help  me  in  a  search  which  is  most  interesting  to  me." 

"  Oh,  then,"  said  Madame  de  Lucenay,  with  affec- 
tionate eagerness,  "  I  beg  you  will  make  use  of  me ; 
dispose  of  me  in  any  way  in  which  I  can  be  useful  to 
you.  Do  you  want  any  interest  ?  Because  De  Lucenay 
must  have  some  degree  of  influence ;  for,  the  days  when 
I  go  to  dine  with  my  great-aunt,  De  Montbrison,  he  enter- 
tains the  deputies ;  and  men  don't  do  that  without  some 
motives;  and  the  trouble  ought  to  be  recompensed  by 
some  contingent  advantages,  such  as  a  certain  amount  of 
influence  over  persons,  who,  in  their  turn,  have  a  great 
deal  of  interest.  So,  I  repeat,  if  we  can  assist  you,  rely 
on  us.  Then  there  is  my  cousin,  the  young  Duke  de 
Montbrison,  who,  being  a  peer  himself,  is  connected  with 
all  the  young  peers.  If  he  can  do  anything,  why,  I  am 
sure  you  have  but  to  command  him.  In  a  word,  dispose 
of  me  and  mine.  You  know  whether  or  not  I  deserve 
the  title  of  a  warm  and  devoted  friend ! " 

"I  know  it  well,  and  do  not  refuse  your  aid,  al- 
though—" 

"  Come,  my  dear  Alcestis,  we  know  how  the  world 
wags,  and  let  us  act  as  if  we  did.    Whether  we  are  here 
or  elsewhere,  it  is  of  little  consequence,  I  imagine,  as  to 
177 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


the  affair  which  interests  you,  and  which  now  interests 
me  very  much  because  it  is  yours.  Let  us  then  talk  of 
it,  and  tell  me  all  I  request  of  you." 

So  saying,  the  duchess  approached  the  fireplace,  leaned 
on  the  mantelpiece,  and  placed  on  the  fender  one  of  the 
prettiest  feet  in  the  world,  which  were,  at  the  moment, 
somewhat  chilled.  With  perfect  tact  Madame  de  Lucenay 
seized  the  opportunity  of  saying  no  more  about  the 
vicomte,  and  of  engaging  M.  de  Saint-Remy  to  talk  of  a 
subject  to  which  he  attached  such  great  importance. 
Clotilde's  conduct  would  have  been  very  different  in 
the  presence  of  his  mother,  and  to  her  she  would  have 
avowed  with  pleasure  and  pride  how  long  he  had  been 
so  dear  to,  so  beloved  by,  her. 

In  spite  of  his  strictness  and  surliness,  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy  yielded  to  the  influence  of  the  cavalier  and  cordial 
demeanour  of  this  lady,  whom  he  had  seen  and  loved 
when  a  child,  and  he  almost  forgot  that  he  was  talking 
to  the  mistress  of  his  son.  Besides,  how  could  he  resist 
the  contagion  of  example,  while  the  subject  of  a  position 
which  was  inexpressibly  embarrassing  did  not  seem  dis- 
turbed, or  even  think  she  ought  to  be  disturbed,  by 
the  difficulty  of  the  situation  in  which  she  unexpectedly 
found  herself  ? 

"  Perhaps  you  do  not  know,  Clotilde,"  said  the  comte, 
"  that  I  have  been  living  at  Angers  for  a  very  long 
time  ?  " 

«  Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  In  spite  of  the  solitude  I  sought,  I  had  selected  that 
city  because  one  of  my  relations  lived  there,  —  M.  de 
Fermont,  —  who,  after  the  heavy  blow  that  had  smitten 
me,  behaved  to  me  like  a  brother.  After  having  accom- 
panied me  to  almost  every  city  in  Europe,  where  I  hoped 
to  meet  with  the  man  I  desired  to  slay,  he  served  me  for 
second  in  the  duel  —  " 

"  Yes,  that  terrible  duel ;  my  father  told  me  all  con- 
1TS 


THE  COMTE  DE  SAINT  -  REMY. 


cerning  it ! "  answered  the  duchess,  in  a  sad  tone  of 
voice.  "  But,  fortunately,  Florestan  is  ignorant  of  that 
duel,  as  well  as  the  cause  that  led  to  it." 

"  I  wished  to  let  him  still  respect  his  mother,"  replied 
the  comte,  stifling  a  sigh.  He  then  continued  :  "  Some 
years  afterwards,  M.  de  Fermont  died  at  Angers  in  my 
arms,  leaving  a  daughter  and  a  wife,  whom,  in  spite  of 
my  misanthropy,  I  was  obliged  to  love,  because  nothing 
in  the  world  could  be  more  pure,  more  noble,  than  these 
two  excellent  creatures.  I  lived  alone  in  a  remote 
quarter  of  the  city  ;  but  when  my  fits  of  black  melan- 
choly gave  me  some  respite,  I  went  to  Madame  de 
Fermont  to  talk  with  her  and  her  daughter  of  him  we 
had  both  lost.  As  whilst  he  was  alive,  so  still  I  came 
to  soothe  and  calm  myself  in  that  gentle  friendship  in 
whose  bosom  I  had  henceforth  concentrated  all  my 
affections.  The  brother  of  Madame  de  Fermont  dwelt 
in  Paris,  and  managed  all  his  sister's  affairs  after  her 
husband's  decease.  He  had  placed  about  a  hundred 
thousand  crowns  (12,000?.),  which  was  all  the  widow's 
fortune,  with  a  notary. 

"  After  some  time  another  and  fearful  shock  affected 
Madame  de  Fermont.  Her  brother,  M.  de  Renneville, 
killed  himself  about  eight  months  ago.  I  did  all  in  my 
power  to  comfort  her.  Her  first  sorrow  somewhat 
abated,  she  went  to  Paris  to  arrange  her  affairs.  After 
some  time  I  learned  that,  by  her  orders,  they  were  sell- 
ing off  the  furniture  she  had  in  her  small  abode  at 
Angers,  and  that  the  money  was  applied  to  the  payment 
of  a  few  little  debts  she  had  left  there.  This  disturbed 
me,  and,  on  inquiry,  I  learned  that  this  unhappy  lady 
and  her  daughter  were  in  dire  distress,  —  the  victims, 
no  doubt,  of  a  bankruptcy.  If  Madame  de  Fermont 
could,  in  such  straits,  rely  on  any  one,  it  was  on  me, 
and  yet  I  never  received  any  information  or  application 
from  her.  It  was  when  I  lost  this  acquaintance  that 
was  so  delightful  to  me  that  I  felt  all  its  value.  You 
179 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


cannot  imagine  my  suffering  and  my  uneasiness  after 
the  departure  of  Madame  de  Fermont  and  her  daughter. 
Their  father  —  husband  —  had  been  a  brother  to  me, 
and  I  was  resolved,  therefore,  to  find  them  again,  to 
learn  how  it  was  they  had  not  addressed  me  in  their 
ruin,  poor  as  I  was ;  and  therefore  I  set  out,  leaving  at 
Angers  a  person  who,  if  anything  was  learned,  would 
inform  me  instantly  of  the  news." 
"Well?" 

"  Yesterday  a  letter  from  Angers  reached  me,  —  they 
know  nothing.  When  I  reached  Paris  I  began  my 
researches.  I  went  first  to  the  old  servant  of  Madame 
de  Fermont's  brother  ;  then  they  told  me  she  lived  on 
the  Quai  of  the  Canal  St.  Martin." 

"  Well,  that  address  —  " 

"  Had  been  theirs ;  but  they  had  moved,  and  where 
to  was  not  known.  Unfortunately,  up  to  the  present 
time,  my  researches  have  been  useless.  After  a  'thou- 
sand vain  attempts  before  I  utterly  despaired,  I  resolved 
to  come  here.  Perhaps  Madame  de  Fermont,  who,  from 
some  inexplicable  motive,  has  not  asked  from  me  aid  or 
assistance,  may  have  had  recourse  to  my  son  as  to  the 
son  of  her  husband's  best  friend.  No  doubt  this  hope 
has  but  very  slight  foundation  ;  but  I  will  not  neglect 
any  chance  that  may  enable  me  to  discover  the  poor 
woman  and  her  child." 

The  Duchess  de  Lucenay,  who  had  been  listening  to 
the  comte  with  the  utmost  attention,  said,  suddenly : 

"  Really  it  would  be  very  singular  if  these  should  be 
the  same  persons  in  whom  Madame  d'Harville  takes  so 
much  interest." 

"  What  persons  ?  "  inquired  the  comte. 

"  The  widow  of  whom  you  speak  is  still  young,  is  she 
not  ?  —  her  face  very  striking  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  how  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Her  daughter,  as  lovely  as  an  angel,  and  about  six- 
teen at  most  ?  " 

180 


THE  COMTE  DE  SAINT  -  REMY. 


"  Yes,  yes." 

"  And  her  name  is  Claire  ? " 

"  Oh,  for  mercy's  sake,  say,  where  are  they  ?  " 

"  Alas !  I  know  not." 

"  You  know  not  ? " 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know.  A  lady  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, Madame  d'Harville,  came  to  me  to  inquire  whether 
or  not  I  knew  a  widow  lady  whose  daughter  was  named 
Claire,  and  whose  brother  had  committed  suicide.  Ma- 
dame d'Harville  inquired  of  me  because  she  had  seen 
these  words,  '  Write  to  Madame  de  Lucenay,'  written  at 
the  bottom  of  a  rough  sketch  of  a  letter  which  this 
unfortunate  lady  was  writing  to  some  stranger  of  whom 
she  was  asking  assistance." 

"  She  wished  to  write  to  you  ;  and  wherefore  to  you  ?  " 

"  1  cannot  solve  your  question." 

"  But  she  knew  you,  it  would  seem,"  said  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy,  struck  with  a  sudden  idea. 
"  What  mean  you  ?  " 

"  She  had  heard  me  speak  of  your  father  a  hundred 
times,  as  well  as  of  you  and  your  generous  and  excellent 
heart.  In  her  misfortune,  it  occurred  to  her  to  address 
you." 

"  That  really  does  explain  this." 

"  And  Madame  d'Harville  —  tell  me,  how  did  she  get 
this  sketch  of  a  letter  into  her  possession  ?  " 

"  That  I  do  not  know ;  all  I  can  say  is,  that,  with- 
out knowing  whither  this  poor  mother  and  child  had 
gone  for  refuge,  she  was,  I  believe,  on  the  trace  of 
them." 

"  Then  I  rely  on  you,  Clotilde,  to  introduce  me  to 
Madame  d'Harville.    I  must  see  her  this  very  day." 

"  Impossible  !  Her  husband  has  just  been  the  victim 
of  a  most  afflicting  accident :  a  pistol  which  he  did  not 
know  to  be  loaded  went  off  in  his  hands,  and  he  was 
killed  on  the  spot." 

"  How  horrible  !  " 

181 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  The  marquise  went  instantly  to  pass  the  first  months 
of  her  mourning  with  her  father  in  Normandy." 

"  Clotilde,  I  beseech  you,  write  to  her  to-day ;  ask  her 
for  all  the  information  in  her  power,  and,  as  she  takes 
an  interest  in  these  poor  women,  say  she  cannot  find  a 
warmer  auxiliary  than  myself ;  that  my  only  desire  is  to 
find  the  widow  of  my  friend,  and  share  with  her  and  her 
daughter  the  little  I  possess.  They  are  now  all  my 
family." 

"  Ever  the  same,  always  generous  and  devoted !  Rely 
on  me.  I  will  write  to-day  to  Madame  d'Harville. 
Where  shall  I  address  my  answer?" 

"  To  Asnieres  Poste-Restante." 

"  How  odd !  Why  do  you  live  there,  and  not  in 
Paris  ? " 

"  I  detest  Paris,  because  of  the  recollections  it  excites 
in  me ! "  said  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  with  a  gloomy  air. 
"  My  old  physician,  Doctor  Griffon,  with  whom  I  have 
kept  up  a  correspondence,  has  a  small  house  on  the 
banks  of  the  Seine,  near  Asniesres,  which  he  does  not 
occupy  in  the  winter  ;  he  offered  it  to  me  ;  it  is  almost 
close  to  Paris,  and  there  I  could  be  undisturbed,  and 
find  the  solitude  I  desire.    So  I  accepted  it." 

"  I  will  then  write  to  you  at  Asnieres,  and  I  can  give 
you  some  information  which  may  be  useful  to  you,  and 
which  I  had  from  Madame  d'Harville.  Madame  de  Fer- 
mont's  ruin  has  been  occasioned  by  the  roguery  of  the 
notary  in  whose  hands  all  your  deceased  relative's  for- 
tune was  deposited.  The  notary  denied  that  the  money 
was  ever  placed  in  his  hands." 

"  The  scoundrel !    And  his  name  ? " 

"  M.  Jacques  Ferrand,"  replied  the  duchess,  without 
being  able  to  conceal  her  inclination  to  laugh. 

"  How  strange  you  are,  Clotilde !  "  said  the  comte, 
surprised  and  annoyed ;  "  nothing  can  be  more  serious, 
more  sad  than  this,  and  yet  you  laugh." 

In  fact,  Madame  de  Lucenay,  at  the  recollection  of  the 
182 


THE  COMTE  DE  SAINT- REM Y. 


amorous  declaration  of  the  notary,  had  been  unable  to 
repress  her  hilarity. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  sir,"  she  replied,  "  but  this 
notary  is  such  a  singular  being,  and  they  tell  such  odd 
stories  about  him ;  but,  in  truth,  if  his  reputation  as  an 
honest  man  is  not  more  deserved  than  his  reputation  as 
a  religious  man  (and  I  declare  that  is  hypocrisy)  he  is  a 
great  wretch." 

"  And  he  lives  —  " 

«  Rue  du  Sentier." 

"  I  will  call  upon  him.    What  you  tell  me  confirms 
certain  other  suspicions." 
"  What  suspicions  ?  " 

"  From  certain  information  as  to  the  death  of  the  brother 
of  my  poor  friend,  I  should  be  almost  tempted  to  believe 
that  that  unhappy  man,  instead  of  committing  suicide, 
had  been  the  victim  of  assassination." 

"  And  what  can  make  you  suppose  that  ? " 

"  Several  reasons,  which  would  be  too  long  to  detail  to 
you  now.  I  will  leave  you.  Do  not  forget  the  promises 
of  service  which  you  have  made  me  in  your  own  and 
your  husband's  name." 

"  What,  will  you  go  without  seeing  Florestan  ?  " 

"  You  may  suppose  how  painful  this  interview  would 
be  to  me.  I  would  brave  it  only  in  the  hope  of  finding 
some  information  as  to  Madame  de  Fermont,  being  un- 
willing to  neglect  anything  to  discover  her.  Now,  then, 
adieu ! " 

"  Ah,  you  are  pitiless  ! " 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  your  son  was  never  in  greater  need  of 
your  advice." 

"  What,  is  he  not  rich  —  happy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  is  ignorant  of  mankind.  Blindly  ex- 
travagant, because  he  is  generous  and  confiding  in  every- 
thing, and  everywhere  and  always  free  and  noble,  I  fear 
people  take  advantage  of  his  liberality.  If  you  but 
183 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


knew  the  nobleness  of  his  heart !  I  have  never  dared 
to  preach  to  him  on  the  subject  of  his  expenditure  and 
want  of  care  :  in  the  first  place,  because  I  am  as  incon- 
siderate as  himself,  and  next,  in  the  second  place,  for 
other  reasons  ;  whilst  you,  on  the  contrary  —  " 

Madame  de  Lucenay  could  not  finish.  The  voice  of 
Florestan  de  Saint-Remy  was  heard.  He  entered  hastily 
into  the  cabinet  next  to  the  room  in  which  they  were, 
and,  after  having  shut  the  door  suddenly,  he  said,  in  a 
broken  voice,  to  some  one  who  accompanied  him  : 

"  But  it  is  impossible." 

"  I  tell  you  again,"  replied  the  clear  and  sharp  voice 
of  M.  Badinot,  "  I  tell  you  again  that,  if  not,  why,  in  four 
hours  you  will  be  apprehended ;  for,  if  he  has  not  the 
cash  forthwith,  our  man  will  lodge  his  complaint  with 
the  king's  attorney-general ;  and  you  know  the  result  of 
a  forgery  like  this,  —  the  galleys,  the  galleys,  my  poor 
dear  vicomte !  " 


184 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE ,  INTERVIEW. 

It  is  impossible  to  paint  the  look  which  Madame  de 
Lucenay  and  the  father  of  Florestan  exchanged  at  these 
terrible  words,  —  "  The  galleys,  the  galleys,  my  poor  dear 
vicomte ! "  The  comte  became  deadly  pale,  and  leant 
on  the  back  of  an  armchair,  whilst  his  knees  seemed  to 
sink  beneath  him.  His  venerable  and  respected  name,  — 
his  name  dishonoured  by  the  man  whom  he  accused  of 
being  the  fruit  of  adultery  ! 

The  first  feeling  over,  the  contracted  features  of  the 
old  man,  a  threatening  gesture  which  he  made  as  he 
advanced  towards  the  adjoining  apartment,  betrayed  a 
resolution  so  alarming  that  Madame  de  Lucenay  seized 
his  hand,  and  said,  in  an  accent  of  the  most  perfect 
conviction  : 

"  He  is  innocent ;  I  will  swear  it.    Listen  in  silence." 

The  comte  paused.  He  wished  to  believe  what  the 
duchess  said  to  him,  and  she  was  entirely  persuaded  of 
Florestan' s  untarnished  honour.  To  obtain  fresh  sacri- 
fices from  this  woman,  so  blindly  generous,  —  sacrifices 
which  alone  could  save  him  from  arrest,  —  and  the  prose- 
cution of  Jacques  Ferrand,  the  vicomte  had  affirmed  to 
Madame  de  Lucenay  that,  duped  by  a  scoundrel  from 
whom  he  had  taken  a  forged  bill  in  exchange,  he  ran  the 
risk  of  being  considered  as  the  forger's  accomplice,  as 
having  himself  put  this  bill  into  circulation.  Madame  de 
Lucenay  knew  that  the  vicomte  was  imprudent,  extrav- 
agant, reckless ;  but  she  never  for  an  instant  supposed 
185 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


him  capable,  not  only  of  a  base  or  an  infamous  action, 
but  even  of  the  slightest  indiscretion.  Twice  lending  him 
considerable  sums  under  very  trying  circumstances,  she 
had  wished  to  render  him  a  friendly  service,  the  vicomte 
expressly  accepting  these  loans'  under  the  condition  that 
he  should  return  them ;  for  there  were  persons,  he  said, 
who  owed  him  double  that  amount ;  and  his  style  of 
living  made  it  seem  probable. 

Besides,  Madame  de  Lucenay,  yielding  to  the  impulse 
of  her  natural  kindness,  had  only  thought  of  how  she 
could  be  useful  to  Florestan,  without  ever  reflecting  as  to 
whether  or  not  he  would  ever  return  the  sums  thus 
advanced.  He  said  so,  and  she  did  not  doubt  him ;  for, 
otherwise,  would  he  have  accepted  such  large  amounts  ? 
When,  then,  she  thus  answered  for  Florestan's  honour, 
entreating  the  old  comte  to  listen  to  his  son's  conversa- 
tion, the  duchess  thought  that  it  was  a  question  of  the 
*  breach  of  honour  of  which  the  vicomte  had  declared 

himself  the  victim,  and  that  he  must  stand  forth  com- 
pletely exonerated  in  the  eyes  of  his  father. 

"  Again  I  declare,"  continued  Florestan,  in  a  troubled 
voice,  "  this  Petit- Jean  is  a  scamp  ;  he  assured  me  that 
he  had  no  other  bills  in  his  hands  but  those  which  I  re- 
ceived from  him  yesterday  and  three  days  previously.  I 
believed  this  one  was  still  in  circulation,  and  only  due 
three  months  hence,  in  London,  at  the  house  of  Adams 
and  Company." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  sarcastic  voice  of  Badinot,  "  I 
know,  my  dear  vicomte,  that  you  had  managed  the  affair 
very  cleverly,  so  that  your  forgeries  would  not  be  de- 
tected until  you  were  a  long  way  off ;  but  you  tried  to 
'  do '  those  who  were  more  cunning  than  yourself." 

"  And  you  dare  to  say  that  to  me,  now,  rogue  as  you 
are,"  exclaimed  Florestan,  furious  with  anger,  "  when 
was  it  not  you  yourself  who  brought  me  into  contact 
with  the  person  who  negotiated  these  bills  ?  " 

"  Now,  my  dear  aristocrat,"  replied  Badinot,  coolly, 
186 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


"  be  cool !  You  very  skilfully  counterfeit  commercial 
signatures ;  but,  although  they  are  so  adroitly  done,  that 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  treat  your  friends  with  dis- 
agreeable familiarity  ;  and,  if  you  give  way  to  unseemly 
fits  of  temper,  I  shall  leave  you,  and  then  you  may 
arrange  this  matter  by  yourself." 

"  And  do  you  think  it  possible  for  a  man  to  be  calm 
in  such  a  position  as  that  in  which  I  find  myself  ?  If 
what  you  say  be  true,  if  this  charge  be  to-day  preferred 
at  the  office  of  the  attorney-general,  I  am  lost !  " 

"  It  is  really  as  I  tell  you,  unless  you  have  again  re- 
course to  your  charming,  blue-eyed  Providence." 

"  Impossible ! " 

"  Then  make  up  your  mind  to  the  worst.  It  is  a  pity  ; 
it  was  the  last  bill ;  and  for  five  and  twenty  thousand 
miserable  francs  (1,000Z.)  to  go  and  take  the  air  at 
Toulon  is  awkward,  absurd,  foolish !  How  could  a 
clever  fellow  like  you  allow  yourself  to  be  thus  taken 
aback  ? " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  What  can  I  do  ?  Nothing  here 
is  my  own,  and  I  have  not  twenty  louis  in  the  world 
left." 

"  Your  friends  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  am  in  debt  to  every  one  who  could  lend  me. 
Do  you  think  else  that  I  am  such  a  fool  as  to  have  waited 
until  to-day  before  I  applied  to  them  ? " 

"  True ;  but,  come,  let  us  discuss  the  matter  quietly  ; 
that  is  the  best  way  of  arriving  at  a  reasonable  conclu- 
sion. Just  now,  I  wish  to  explain  to  you  how  you  had 
been  met  by  a  party  more  clever  than  yourself,  but  you 
did  not  attend  to  me." 

"  Well,  tell  me  now,  if  that  will  do  any  good." 

"  Let  us  recapitulate.  You  said  to  me  two  months 
since,  '  I  have  bills  on  different  banking-houses,  at  long 
dates,  for  a  hundred  and  thirteen  thousand  francs 
(4,520Z.),  and,  my  dear  Badinot,  I  wish  you  to  find 
me  the  means  of  cashing  them.' " 
187 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"Well,  and  then  —  " 

"Listen:  I  asked  you  to  let  me  see  these  bills;  a 
certain  something  made  me  suspect  that  they  were 
forged,  although  so  admirably  done.  I  did  not  suspect, 
it  is  true,  that  you  were  so  expert  in  caligraphy  ;  but, 
employing  myself  in  looking  after  your  fortune  when 
you  had  no  longer  any  fortune  to  look  after,  I  found 
you  were  completely  done  up !  I  had  arranged  the  deed 
by  which  your  horses,  your  carriages,  and  the  furniture 
of  this  house  became  the  property  of  Boyer  and  Edwards. 
Thus,  then,  there  was  no  wonder  at  my  astonishment 
when  I  found  you  in  possession  of  commercial  securities 
to  such  a  considerable  amount,  eh  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  your  astonishment,  but  come  to  the 
point." 

"I  am  close  upon  it.  I  have  enough  experience  or 
timidity  not  to  be  very  anxious  to  mix  myself  up  with 
affairs  of  this  nature ;  I  therefore  advised  you  to  consult 
a  third  party,  who,  no  less  clear-sighted  than  myself, 
suspected  the  trick  you  desired  to  play  him." 

"  Impossible !  He  would  not  have  discounted  the 
bills  if  he  had  believed  them  forged." 

"  How  much  money  down  did  you  get  for  these 
hundred  and  thirteen  thousand  francs?" 

"  Twenty-five  thousand  francs  in  ready  money,  and 
the  rest  in  small  debts  to  collect." 

"  And  how  much  of  these  small  debts  did  you 
collect?" 

"  Nothing,  as  you  very  well  know ;  they  were  ficti- 
tious; but  still  he  risked  twenty-five  thousand  francs." 

"  How  green  you  are,  my  dear  vicomte  !  Having  my 
commission  of  a  hundred  louis  to  receive  of  you  if  the 
affair  came  off,  I  took  very  good  care  not  to  say  a  word 
to  No.  3  as  to  the  real  state  of  your  affairs.  Thus  he 
believed  you  entirely  at  your  ease,  and  he,  moreover, 
knew  how  you  were  adored  by  a  certain  great  lady, 
immensely  rich,  who  would  not  allow  you  to  be  left  in 
188 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


any  difficulties,  and  thus  he  was  quite  sure  of  recovering 
at  least  as  much  as  he  advanced.  He  ran  a  risk,  cer- 
tainly, of  losing  something,  but  he  also  ran  a  chance 
of  gaining  very  considerably;  and  his  calculation  was 
correct,  for,  the  other  day,  you  counted  out  to  him  a 
hundred  thousand  francs,  good  and  sound,  in  order  to 
retire  the  bill  for  fifty-eight  thousand  francs ;  and, 
yesterday,  thirty  thousand  francs  for  the  second ;  for 
that  he  contented  himself,  it  is  true,  with  the  actual 
amount.  How  you  raised  these  thirty  thousand  francs 
yesterday,  devil  fetch  me,  if  I  can  guess !  But  you  are 
a  wonderful  fellow !  You  see,  now,  that,  to  wind  up 
the  account,  if  Petit-Jean  forces  you  to  pay  the  last  bill 
of  twenty-five  thousand  francs,  he  will  have  received 
from  you  a  hundred  and  fifty-five  thousand  francs  for 
the  twenty-five  thousand  which  he  originally  handed  to 
you.  So  I  was  quite  right  when  I  said  that  you  had 
met  with  a  person  even  more  clever  than  yourself." 

"  But  why  did  he  say  that  this  last  bill  which  he 
presents  to-day  was  negotiated?" 

"  That  you  might  not  take  the  alarm,  he  told  you  also 
that,  except  that  of  fifty-eight  thousand  francs,  the  others 
were  in  circulation  ;  the  first  being  paid,  yesterday  comes 
the  second,  and  to-day  the  third." 

«  Scoundrel ! " 

"Listen:  every  one  for  himself;  but  let  us  talk 
coolly.  This  must  prove  to  you  that  Petit-Jean  (and, 
between  ourselves,  I  should  not  be  astonished  to  find 
out  that,  in  spite  of  his  sanctity,  Jacques  Ferrand  went 
snacks  in  the  speculation),  this  must  prove,  I  say,  that 
Petit-Jean,  led  on  by  your  first  payments,  speculates  on 
this  last  bill,  as  he  has  speculated  on  the  others,  quite 
certain  that  your  friends  will  not  allow  you  to  be  handed 
over  to  a  court  of  assizes.  It  is  for  you  to  see  whether 
or  not  these  friendships  are  yet  drained  dry,  or  if  there 
are  yet  a  few  more  drops  to  be  squeezed  out ;  for  if,  in 
three  hours,  the  twenty-five  thousand  francs  are  not 
189 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


forthcoming,  noble  vicomte,  you  will  be  in  the  '  Stone 
Jug.'" 

"  Which  you  keep  saying  to  me  —  " 

"  In  order  that  you  may  thoroughly  comprehend  me, 
and  agree,  perhaps,  to  try  and  draw  another  feather 
from  the  wing  of  this  generous  duchess." 

"  I  repeat,  it  is  useless  to  think  of  such  a  thing.  Any 
hope  of  finding  twenty-five  thousand  francs  in  three 
hours,  after  the  sacrifices  she  has  already  made,  would 
be  madness  to  expect." 

"  To  please  you,  happy  mortal,  impossibilities  would 
be  attempted ! " 

"  Oh,  she  has  already  tried  impossibilities ;  for  it  was 
one  to  borrow  a  hundred  thousand  francs  from  her  hus- 
band, and  to  succeed ;  but  such  phenomena  are  not  ex- 
pected twice  in  a  lifetime.  Now,  my  dear  Badinot,  up 
to  this  time  you  have  had  no  cause  to  complain  of  me. 
I  have  always  been  generous.  Try  and  obtain  some 
delay  from  this  wretch,  Petit-Jean.  You  know  very 
well  I  always  find  a  way  of  recompensing  those  who 
serve  me ;  and  when  once  this  last  affair  is  got  over 
I  will  try  again,  and  you  shall  be  satisfied." 

"  Petit-Jean  is  as  inflexible  as  you  are  unreasonable." 

"  I ! " 

"  Try  once  more  to  interest  your  generous  friend  in 
your  sad  fate.  Devil  take  it !  Why  not  tell  her  plump 
all  about  it ;  not,  as  you  have  already,  that  you  have 
been  the  dupe  of  forgers,  but  that  you  are  a  forger 
yourself  ?  " 

"  I  will  never  make  to  her  any  such  confession ;  it 
would  be  to  shame  myself  for  no  advantage." 

"  Do  you  prefer,  then,  that  she  should  learn  the  fact 
to-morrow  by  the  Gazette  des  TrihunauxP 

"  I  have  three  hours  before  me,  and  can  fly." 

"  Where  can  you  go  without  money  ?  But  look  at 
the  other  side  of  the  matter.  This  last  forged  bill 
retired,  you  will  be  again  in  a  splendid  position;  you 
190 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


will  only  have  a  few  debts.  Come,  promise  me  that 
you  will  again  speak  to  your  duchess.  You  are  such 
a  fellow  for  the  women !  You  know  how  to  make  your- 
self interesting  in  spite  of  your  errors;  and,  let  the 
worst  come  to  the  worst,  they  will  like  you  a  little  the 
worse,  or  not  at  all ;  but  they  will  extricate  you  from 
your  mess.  Come,  come,  see  your  "lovely  and  loving 
friend  once  more.  I  will  run  to  Petit-Jean,  and  I  feel 
sure  I  shall  get  a  respite  of  an  hour  or  two." 

"  Hell !  Must  I,  then,  drink  the  draught  of  shame  to 
the  very  dregs  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  good  luck ;  be  tender,  passionate, 
charming.  I  will  run  to  Petit-Jean ;  you  will  find  me 
there  until  three  o'clock ;  later  than  that  will  be  use- 
less ;  the  attorney-general's  office  closes  at  four  o'clock." 
And  M.  Badinot  left  the  apartment. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  they  heard  Florestan 
exclaim  in  accents  of  the  deepest  despair :  "  Mon 
Dieu!    Mon  Dieu!    Mon  Dieu!" 

During  this  conversation,  which  unveiled  to  the 
comte  the  infamy  of  his  son,  and  to  Madame  de 
Lucenay  the  infamy  of  the  man  she  had  so  blindly 
loved,  both  had  remained  motionless,  scarcely  breath- 
ing, beneath  this  fearful  disclosure.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  depict  the  mute  eloquence  of  the  agonising 
scene  which  took  place  between  this  young  lady  and  the 
comte  when  he  had  no  longer  any  possible  doubt  as  to 
Florestan's  crime.  Extending  his  arms  to  the  room  in 
which  his  son  was,  the  old  man  smiled  with  bitterest  sar- 
casm, casting  an  overwhelming  look  on  Madame  de  Luce- 
nay,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  And  this  is  the  man  for  whom 
you  have  braved  all  shame,  —  made  every  sacrifice !  This 
is  he  whom  you  have  reproached  me  for  abandoning  ?  " 

The  duchess  understood  the  reproach,  and,  bowing 
her  head,  she  felt  all  the  weight  of  her  shame.  The 
lesson  was  terrible.  By  degrees,  however,  a  haughty 
indignation  succeeded  to  the  cruel  anxiety  which  had 
191 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


contracted  the  features  of  Madame  de  Lucenay.  The 
inexcusable  faults  of  this  lady  were  at  least  palliat  d  by 
the  sincerity  and  disinterestedness  of  her  love,  by  the 
boldness  of  her  devotion  and  the  boundlessness  of  her 
generosity,  by  the  frankness  of  her  character,  and  by 
her  inexorable  aversion  from  all  that  was  contemptible 
and  base. 

Still  too  young,  too  handsome,  too  recherche,  to  feel 
the  humiliation  of  having  been  merely  made  a  tool  of, 
when  once  the  feeling  of  love  was  suddenly  crushed 
within  her,  this  haughty  and  decided  woman  felt  no 
longer  hatred  or  anger,  but  instantaneously,  and  without 
any  transition,  a  deadly  disgust,  an  icy  disdain,  at  once 
destroyed  all  that  affection  hitherto  so  strong.  She  was 
no  longer  the  mistress,  unworthily  deceived  by  her  lover, 
but  the  lady  of  high  blood  and  rank  detecting  a  man  of 
her  circle  to  be  a  swindler  and  a  forger,  and  driving  him 
forth.  Supposing  that  there  were  even  some  extenuating 
circumstances  for  the  ignominy  of  Florestan,  Madame  de 
Lucenay  would  not  have  admitted  them  ;  for,  in  her  esti- 
mation, the  man  who  crossed  certain  bounds  of  honour, 
whether  from  vice,  weakness,  or  persuasion,  no  longer 
had  an  existence  in  her  eyes,  honourable  demeanour 
being  with  her  a  question  of  existence  or  non-existence. 
The  only  painful  feeling  which  the  duchess  experienced 
was  excited  by  the  terrible  effect  which  this  unexpected 
revelation  produced  on  her  old  friend,  the  comte. 

For  some  moments  he  seemed  neither  to  see  nor  hear ; 
his  eyes  were  fixed,  his  head  bowed,  his  arms  hanging 
by  his  side,  his  face  livid  as  death ;  whilst  from  time  to 
time  a  convulsive  sigh  heaved  his  breast.  With  such  a 
man,  as  resolute  as  energetic,  such  a  condition  was  more 
alarming  than  the  most  violent  transports  of  anger.  Ma- 
dame de  Lucenay  regarded  him  with  great  uneasiness. 

"  Courage,  my  dear  friend,"  she  said  to  him,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  for  you,  —  for  me,  —  for  this  man,  —  I  know 
what  remains  for  me  to  do." 

192 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


The  old  man  looked  steadfastly  at  her,  and  then,  as 
if  aroused  from  his  stupor  by  a  violent  internal  commo- 
tion, he  raised  his  head,  his  features  assumed  a  menac- 
ing appearance,  and,  forgetting  that  his  son  could  hear 
him,  he  exclaimed : 

"  And  I,  too,  for  you,  —  for  me,  —  and  for  this  man, 
—  I  know  what  remains  for  me  to  do." 

« -Who  is  there  ? "  inquired  Florestan,  surprised. 

Madame  de  Lucenay,  fearing  to  find  herself  in  the 
vicomte's  presence,  disappeared  by  the  little  door,  and 
descended  the  secret  staircase.  Florestan  having  again 
asked  who  was  there,  and  receiving  no  reply,  entered 
the  salon.  He  found  the  comte  there  alone.  The  old 
man's  long  beard  had  so  greatly  altered  him,  and  he 
was  so  miserably  clad,  that  his  son,  who  had  not  seen 
him  for  several  years,  not  recognising  him  at  the 
moment,  advanced  towards  him  with  a  menacing  air. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?    Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  The  husband  of  that  woman !  "  replied  the  comte, 
pointing  to  the  picture  of  Madame  de  Saint-Remy. 

"  My  father ! "  exclaimed  Florestan,  recoiling  in 
alarm,  as  he  recalled  the  features  of  the  comte,  so 
long  forgotten. 

Standing  erect,  with  threatening  air,  angry  look,  his 
forehead  scarlet,  the  comte  looked  down  upon  his  son, 
who,  with  his  head  bent  down,  dared  not  raise  his  eyes 
towards  him.  Still,  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  for  some  motive, 
made  a  violent  effort  to  remain  calm,  and  conceal  his 
real  feelings  and  resentment. 

"My  father!"  said  Florestan,  half  choked.  "You 
were  there  ?  " 

"  I  was  there." 

"  You  heard,  then?" 

"All!" 

"  Ah ! "  cried  the  vicomte,  in  agony,  and  hiding  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

There  was  a  minute's  silence.    Florestan,  at  first  as 
193 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


much  astonished  as  annoyed  at  the  unexpected  appear- 
ance of  his  father,  began  to  reflect  upon  what  advantage 
he  could  derive  from  this  incident. 

"  All  is  not  lost,"  he  said  to  himself  ;  "  my  father's 
presence  is  a  stroke  of  fate.  He  knows  all ;  he  will  not 
have  his  name  dishonoured.  He  is  not  rich,  but  he 
must  possess  more  than  twenty-five  thousand  francs. 
A  little  skill,  and  I  may  leave  my  duchess  at  peace, 
and  be  saved  !  "  Then,  giving  to  his  handsome  features 
an  expression  of  grief  and  dejection,  moistening  his  eye 
with  the  tears  of  repentance,  assuming  his  most  touching 
tone  of  voice,  he  exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands  with  a 
gesture  of  despair : 

"  Ah,  father,  I  am  indeed  wretched  !  After  so  many 
years,  —  to  see  you  —  at  such  a  moment !  I  must  appear 
to  you  most  culpable ;  but  deign  to  listen  to  me !  I 
beseech  you,  allow  me,  not  to  justify  myself,  but  to 
explain  to  you  my  conduct !    Will  you,  my  father  ? " 

M.  de  Saint-Remy  made  no  reply ;  his  features 
remained  rigid ;  but,  seating  himself,  his  chin  leaning 
on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  he  contemplated  the  vicomte  in 
silence.  Had  Florestan  known  the  motives  which  filled 
the  mind  of  his  father  with  fury  and  vengeance,  alarmed 
by  the  apparent  composure  of  the  comte,  he  would  not, 
doubtless,  have  tried  to  dupe  him.  But,  ignorant  of  the 
suspicions  respecting  the  legitimacy  of  his  birth,  and  of 
his  mother's  lapse  of  virtue,  he  had  no  doubt  of  the  suc- 
cess of  his  deceit,  thinking  his  father,  who  was  very 
proud  of  his  name,  was  capable  of  making  any  sacrifice 
rather  than  allow  it  to  be  dishonoured. 

"  My  father,"  resumed  Florestan,  timidly,  "  allow  me 
to  endeavour,  not  to  exculpate  myself,  but  to  tell  you  by 
what  a  series  of  involuntary  temptations  I  have  done,  in 
spite  of  myself,  —  such —  an  infamous  action." 

The  vicomte  took  his  father's  silence  for  tacit  consent, 
and  continued: 

"  When  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  my  mother  —  my 
194 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


poor  mother  !  —  I  was  alone,  without  advice  or  support. 
Master  of  a  considerable  fortune,  used  to  luxury  from 
my  cradle,  it  became  to  me  a  necessity.  Ignorant  how 
difficult  it  is  to  earn  money,  I  was  immeasurably  prodi- 
gal. Unfortunately,  my  expenses,  foolish  as  they  were, 
were  remarkable  for  their  elegance.  By  my  taste,  I 
eclipsed  men  ten  times  richer  than  myself.  This  first 
success  intoxicated  me,  and  I  became  a  man  of  extrava- 
gance, as  one  becomes  a  man  of  arms,  or  a  statesman. 
Yes,  I  liked  luxury,  not  from  vulgar  ostentation,  but  I 
liked  it  as  a  painter  loves  his  art.  Like  every  artist, 
I  was  jealous  of  my  work,  and  my  work  was  to  me  lux- 
ury. I  sacrificed  everything  to  its  perfection.  I  wished 
to  have  it  beautiful  and  complete  in  everything,  from  my 
stable  to  my  drawing-room,  from  my  coat  to  my  house. 
I  wished  my  life  to  be  the  emblem  of  taste  and  elegance. 
In  fact,  as  an  artist,  I  sought  the  applause  of  the  mob 
and  the  admiration  of  the  elite.  This  success  is  rare, 
but  I  acquired  it." 

As  he  spake,  Florestan's  features  gradually  lost  their 
hypocritical  assumption,  and  his  eyes  kindled  with  enthu- 
siasm. He  looked  in  his  father's  face,  and,  thinking  it 
was  somewhat  softened,  continued : 

"  Oracle  and  regulator  of  the  world,  my  praise  or 
blame  were  law :  I  was  quoted,  copied,  boasted  of, 
admired,  and  that  by  the  best  circle  in  Paris,  which 
is  to  say  in  Europe  —  in  the  world.  The  women  partici- 
pated in  the  general  enthusiasm,  and  the  loveliest  con- 
tended for  the  pleasure  of  being  invited  to  certain  fetes 
which  I  gave,  and  everywhere  wonder  was  expressed  at 
the  incomparable  elegance  and  taste  displayed  at  these 
fetes,  which  millionaires  could  not  equal.  In  fine,  I  was 
the  monarch  of  fashion.  This  word  will  tell  you  all,  my 
father,  if  you  comprehend  it." 

"  I  do  comprehend  it,  and  I  am  sure  that  at  the 
galleys  you  will  invent  some  refined  elegance  in  your 
fashion  of  wearing  your  chain  that  will  become  the  mode 
195 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


in  your  gang,  and  will  be  called  d  la  Saint-Remy,"  said 
the  old  man,  with  cutting  irony,  adding,  "  and  Saint- 
Remy,  —  that  is  my  name  ! "    And  again  he  was  silent. 

Florestan  had  need  of  all  his  self-control  to  conceal 
the  wound  which  this  bitter  sarcasm  inflicted.  He 
continued  in  a  more  humble  tone : 

"  Alas !  Father,  it  is  not  from  pride  that  I  revive  the 
recollection  of  my  success,  for,  I  repeat  to  you,  it  is  that 
success  which  has  undone  me.  Sought,  envied,  and  flat- 
tered, not  by  interested  parasites,  but  by  persons  much 
superior  in  position  to  myself,  I  no  longer  calculated  my 
fortune  must  be  expended  in  a  few  years  ;  that  I  did  not 
heed.  Could  I  renounce  this  favourite,  dazzling  life,  in 
which  pleasures  succeeded  pleasures,  every  kind  of  intoxi- 
cation to  every  kind  of  enchantment  ?  Ah,  if  you  knew, 
father,  what  it  is  to  be  hailed  as  the  hero  of  the  day, 
to  hear  the  murmur  which  greets  your  entrance  into  the 
salon,  to  hear  the  women  say,  '  That  is  he !  There  he 
is ! '  —  oh,  if  you  knew  —  " 

"  I  know,"  said  the  old  man,  without  moving  from  his 
attitude,  —  "I  know.  Yes,  the  other  day,  in  a  public 
place,  there  was  a  crowd ;  suddenly  a  murmur  was 
heard,  like  that  which  greets  you  when  you  enter  some 
place ;  then  the  women's  eyes  were  all  turned  eagerly 
on  a  very  handsome  young  man,  just  as  they  are  turned 
towards  you,  and  they  pointed  him  out  to  one  another, 
saying,  '  That's  he  !  There  he  is ! '  just  as  if  they  were 
directing  attention  to  you." 

"  And  this  man,  my  father  ?  " 

"  Was  a  forger  they  were  conveying  to  gaol." 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  Florestan,  with  concentrated  rage. 
Then  affecting  the  deepest  affliction,  he  added,  "  My 
father,  you  are  pitiless,  —  what  shall  I  then  say  to  you  ? 
I  do  not  seek  to  deny  my  errors,  I  only  desire  to  explain 
to  you  the  fatal  infatuation  which  has  caused  them. 
Well,  then,  even  if  you  should  overwhelm  me  still  with 
your  bitterest  sarcasms,  I  will  endeavour  to  go  through 
196 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


with  this  confession,  —  I  will  endeavour  to  make  you 
comprehend  this  feverish  excitement  which  has  destroyed 
me,  because  then,  perchance,  you  may  pity  me,  —  yes,  for 
there  is  pity  for  a  madman,  and  I  was  mad !  Shutting 
my  eyes,  I  abandoned  myself  to  the  dazzling  whirl  into 
which  I  was  drawn,  and  drew  with  me  the  most  charm- 
ing women,  the  most  delightful  men.  How  could  I  check 
myself  ?  As  easily  say  to  the  poet  who  exhausts  him- 
self, and  whose  genius  preys  upon  his  health,  '  Pause  in 
the  midst  of  the  inspiration  which  urges  you ! '  No ! 
He  could  not  —  I  could  not,  abdicate  the  royalty  which 
I  exercised,  and  return  shamed,  ruined,  and  mocked  at, 
into  the  unknown  mob,  giving  this  triumph  to  those  who 
envied  me,  and  whom,  until  then,  I  had  defied,  controlled, 
overpowered  !  No  !  No !  I  could  not,  voluntarily,  at 
least. 

"  Then  came  the  fatal  day,  when,  for  the  first  time, 
money  failed  me.  I  was  surprised  as  much  as  if  such  a 
moment  never  could  have  arrived.  Yet  I  had  still  my 
horses,  my  carriages,  the  furniture  of  this  house.  When 
my  debts  were  paid  there  would,  perhaps,  still  remain  to 
me  about  sixty  thousand  francs.  What  could  I  do  in 
such  misery  ?  It  was  then,  father,  that  I  made  my  first 
step  in  the  path  of  disgrace ;  until  this  time  I  was  hon- 
ourable,—  I  had  only  spent  what  belonged  to  me,  but 
then  I  began  to  incur  debts  which  I  had  no  chance  of 
paying.  I  sold  all  I  had  to  two  of  my  domestics  in  order 
to  pay  my  debt  to  them,  and  to  be  enabled  to  continue 
for  six  months  longer,  in  spite  of  my  creditors,  to  enjoy 
the  luxury  which  intoxicated  me. 

"  To  supply  my  play  debts  and  extravagant  outlay  I  first 
borrowed  of  the  Jews,  then,  to  pay  the  Jews,  of  my 
friends,  then,  to  pay  my  friends,  of  my  mistresses. 
These  resources  exhausted,  there  was  another  period  of 
my  life ;  from  an  honest  man  I  became  a  gambler,  but, 
as  yet,  I  was  not  criminal  —  I  still  hesitated  —  I  desired 
to  take  a  violent  resolution.  I  had  proved  in  several 
197 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


duels  that  I  did  not  fear  death.  I  determined  to  kill 
myself!" 

"  Ah !  Bah  !  Really  ? "  said  the  comte,  with  fierce 
irony. 

"  You  do  not  believe  me,  father  ?  " 

"  It  was  too  soon  or  too  late  ! "  replied  the  old  man, 
still  unmoved,  and  in  the  same  attitude. 

Florestan,  believing  that  he  had  moved  his  father  by 
speaking  to  him  of  his  project  for  committing  suicide, 
thought  it  necessary  to  increase  the  effect  by  a  coup  de 
theatre.  He  opened  a  drawer,  took  from  it  a  small 
bottle  of  greenish  glass,  and  said  to  the  comte,  deposit- 
ing it  on  the  table  : 

"  An  Italian  quack  sold  me  this  poison." 

"  And  was  this  poison  for  yourself  ? "  said  the  old 
man,  still  having  his  chin  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

Florestan  understood  the  force  of  the  remark,  his 
features  expressed  real  indignation  ;  for  this  time  he 
spoke  the  truth.  One  day  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  kill 
himself,  —  an  ephemeral  fancy !  Persons  of  his  stamp 
are  usually  too  cowardly  to  make  up  their  minds  calmly, 
and  without  witnesses,  to  the  death  which  they  face  as  a 
point  of  honour  in  a  duel.  He  therefore  exclaimed,  with 
an  accent  of  truth  : 

"  I  have  fallen  very  low,  but  not  so  low  as  that.  It 
was  for  myself  that  I  reserved  this  poison." 

"  And  then  were  afraid  of  it  ?  "  asked  the  comte,  with- 
out changing  his  posture. 

"  I  confess  I  recoiled  before  this  trying  extremity,  — 
nothing  was  yet  desperate.  The  persons  to  whom  I  owed 
money  were  rich  and  could  wait.  At  my  age,  and  with 
my  connections,  I  hoped  for  a  moment,  if  not  to  repair 
my  fortunes,  at  least  to  acquire  for  myself  an  honourable 
position,  an  independence  which  would  have  supplied  my 
present  situation.  Many  of  my  friends,  perhaps  less 
qualified  than  myself,  had  made  rapid  progress  in  diplo- 
macy. I  had  ambition.  I  had  but  to  make  it  known, 
198 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


and  I  was  attached  to  the  legation  to  Gerolstein.  Un- 
fortunately, a  few  days  after  this  nomination,  a  gaming 
debt,  contracted  with  a  man  who  detested  me,  placed  me 
in  a  cruel  dilemma.  I  had  exhausted  my  last  resources. 
A  fatal  idea  flashed  across  my  mind.  Believing  that  I 
was  assured  of  impunity,  I  committed  an  infamous  action. 
You  see,  my  father,  I  conceal  nothing  from  you.  I  avow 
the  ignominy  of  my  conduct,  —  I  do  not  seek  to  extenuate 
anything.  Two  alternatives  are  now  before  me,  and  I  am 
equally  inclined  to  either.  The  one  is  to  kill  myself,  and 
leave  your  name  dishonoured ;  for  if  I  do  not  pay  this 
very  day  the  twenty-five  thousand  francs,  the  accusation 
is  made,  and  all  is  made  public,  and,  dead  or  alive,  I  am 
disgraced.  The  second  is  to  throw  myself  into  your  arms, 
father,  to  say  to  you, c  Save  your  son,  —  save  your  name 
from  infamy ; '  and  I  swear  to  you  to  depart  for  Africa 
to-morrow,  and  die  a  soldier's  death,  or  return  to  you 
completely  restored  in  reputation.  What  I  say  to  you, 
father,  is  true,  —  in  face  of  the  extremity  which  over- 
whelms me,  I  have  no  other  resource.  Decide  :  shall  I 
die  covered  with  shame,  or,  thanks  to  you,  live  to  repair 
my  fault?  These  are  not  the  threats  of  a  young  man. 
I  am  twenty-five  ;  I  bear  your  name,  and  I  have  sufficient 
courage  either  to  kill  myself,  or  to  become  a  soldier ;  for 
1  will  not  go  to  the  galleys." 

The  comte  rose  from  his  seat,  saying : 

"  I  do  not  desire  to  have  my  name  dishonoured." 

"  Oh,  my  father ! "  exclaimed  the  vicomte,  with 
warmth,  and  was  about  to  embrace  his  father,  when 
the  old  man,  repressing  his  enthusiasm,  said : 

"  You  are  expected  until  three  o'clock  at  the  man's 
house  who  has  the  forged  bill?" 

"  Yes,  father,  and  it  is  now  two  o'clock." 

"  Let  us  go  into  your  cabinet ;  give  me  writing  ma- 
terials." 

"  They  are  here,  father." 

The  comte  sat  down  and  wrote,  with  a  firm  hand : 

199 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  undertake  to  pay  this  evening,  at  ten  o'clock,  the  twenty- 
five  thousand  francs  which  my  son  owes. 

"  COMTE  DE  SAIKT-REMY." 

"  Your  creditor  merely  wants  his  money ;  my  guaran- 
tee will  obtain  a  further  delay.  Let  him  go  to  M. 
Dupont,  the  banker,  at  No.  7  in  the  Rue  Richelieu,  and 
he  will  assure  him  of  the  validity  of  this  promise." 

"  Oh,  my  father !    How  can  I  ever  —  " 

"  Expect  me  this  evening ;  at  ten  o'clock  I  will  bring 
the  money.    Let  your  creditor  be  here." 

"  Yes,  father,  and  the  day  after  I  will  set  out  for 
Africa.  You  shall  see  that  I  am  not  ungrateful !  Then, 
perhaps,  when  I  am  again  restored  to  honour  you  will 
accept  my  thanks?" 

"You  owe  me  nothing.  I  have  said  that  my  name 
shall  not  be  dishonoured  again ;  nor  shall  it  be,"  said 
M.  de  Saint-Remy,  in  reply,  taking  up  his  cane,  and 
moving  towards  the  door. 

"My  father,  at  least  shake  hands  with  me!"  said 
Florestan. 

"Here  this  evening  at  ten  o'clock,"  said  the  comte, 
refusing  his  hand. 

"  Saved !  "  exclaimed  Florestan,  joyously,  —  "  saved !  " 
Then  he  continued,  after  a  moment's  reflection :  "  Saved 
—  almost  —  no  matter  —  it  is  always  so.  Perhaps  this 
evening  I  shall  tell  him  of  the  other  thing.  He  is  in  the 
vein,  and  will  not  allow  a  first  sacrifice  to  become  use- 
less for  lack  of  a  second.  Yet  why  should  I  tell  him  ? 
Who  will  ever  know  it  ?  Yet,  if  nothing  should  be  dis- 
covered, I  shall  keep  the  money  he  will  give  me  to  pay 
this  last  debt.  I  had  some  work  to  move  him.  The 
bitterness  of  his  sarcasms  made  me  suspicious  of  his  good 
resolution ;  but  my  threat  of  suicide,  the  fear  of  seeing 
his  name  dishonoured,  decided  him.  That  was  the  way 
to  hit  him.  No  doubt  he  is  not  so  poor  as  he  appears  to 
be.  But  his  arrival  was  indeed  a  godsend.  Now,  then, 
for  the  man  of  law  !  " 

200 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


He  rang  the  bell,  and  M.  Boyer  appeared. 

"  How  was  it  that  you  did  not  inform  me  that  my 
father  was  here  ?    Really,  this  is  most  negligent." 

"  Twice  I  endeavoured  to  address  your  lordship  when 
you  came  in  by  the  garden  gate  with  M.  Badinot,  but 
your  lordship  made  me  a  sign  with  your  hand  not  to 
interrupt  you.  I  did  not  venture  to  insist.  I  should  be 
very  much  grieved  if  your  lordship  should  impute  negli- 
gence to  me." 

"  Very  well.  Desire  Edwards  to  harness  Orion  or 
Ploughboy  in  the  cabriolet  immediately." 

M.  Boyer  made  a  respectful  bow.  As  he  was  about 
to  quit  the  room,  some  one  knocked.  He  looked  at  the 
vicomte  with  an  inquiring  air. 

"  Come  in  ! "  said  Florestan. 

A  second  valet  de  chambre  appeared,  bearing  in  his 
hand  a  small  silver-gilt  waiter.  M.  Boyer  took  hold 
of  the  waiter  with  a  kind  of  jealous  haste,  and  pre- 
sented it  to  the  vicomte,  who  took  from  it  a  thick  packet, 
sealed  with  black  wax. 

The  two  servants  withdrew  discreetly. 

Florestan  broke  open  the  envelope.  It  contained 
twenty-five  thousand  francs  in  treasury  bills,  but  not  a 
word  of  writing. 

"  Decidedly,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  joyful  tone,  "  the  day 
is  propitious !  Saved  this  time,  and  at  this  moment 
completely  saved  !  I  will  run  to  the  jeweller ;  and  yet," 
he  added,  "perhaps  —  no  —  let  us  wait  —  he  cannot 
have  any  suspicion  of  me.  Twenty-five  thousand  francs 
is  a  pleasant  sum  to  have  by  one  !  Pardieu  !  I  was  a 
fool  ever  to  doubt  the  luck  of  my  star ;  at  the  moment 
when  it  seemed  most  obscure,  has  it  not  burst  forth 
more  brilliant  than  ever  ?  But  where  does  this  money 
come  from  ?  The  writing  of  the  address  is  unknown  to 
me.  Let  me  examine  the  seal,  —  the  cipher.  Yes,  yes, 
I  cannot  mistake  ;  an  N  and  an  L,  —  it  is  Clotilde ! 
How   could  she  know  ?    And  not  a  word,  —  that's 

201 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


strange !  How  very  opportune,  though !  Ah,  mon 
Dieuf  now  I  remember.  I  had  an  appointment  with 
her  this  morning.  That  Badinot's  threats  drove  it  out 
of  my  head.  I  forgot  Clotilde.  After  having  waited  for 
me  down-stairs,  no  doubt  she  went  away;  and  this  is, 
unquestionably,  a  delicate  way  of  making  me  understand 
that  she  fears  I  may  forget  her  through  some  pecuniary 
embarrassment.  Yes,  it  is  an  indirect  reproach  that  I 
have  not  applied  to  her  as  usual.  Good  Clotilde !  Al- 
ways the  same,  —  generous  as  a  queen !  What  a  pity  I 
was  ever  driven  to  ask  her,  —  her  still  sO  handsome  ! 
I  sometimes  regret  it,  but  I  only  did  it  in  a  direful 
extremity,  and  on  sheer  compulsion." 

"  Your  lordship's  cabriolet  is  at  the  door,"  said  M. 
Boyer,  on  entering  the  room. 

"  Who  brought  this  letter  ? "  Florestan  inquired. 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  I  will  ask  below.  But  tell  me,  was  there  no 
one  in  the  ground  floor  ? "  asked  the  vicomte,  looking 
significantly  at  Boyer. 

"  There  is  no  one  there  now,  my  lord." 

"  I  was  not  mistaken,"  thought  Florestan ;  "  Clotilde 
waited  for  me,  and  is  now  gone." 

"  If  your  lordship  would  have  the  goodness  to  grant 
me  two  minutes,"  said  Boyer. 

"  Speak,  but  be  quick !  " 

"  Edwards  and  myself  have  learnt  that  the  Due  de 
Montbrison  is  desirous  of  forming  an  establishment.  If 
your  lordship  would  but  just  be  so  kind  to  propose  your 
own  ready  furnished,  with  the  stable  in  first-rate  order, 
it  would  be  a  most  admirable  opportunity  for  Edwards 
and  myself  to  get  the  whole  off  our  hands,  and,  perhaps, 
for  your  lordship  a  good  reason  for  disposing  of  them." 

"  Pardieu  !  Boyer,  you  are  right.  As  for  me,  I  should 
prefer  such  an  arrangement.  I  will  see  Montbrison,  and 
speak  to  him.    What  are  your  terms  ?  " 

"Your  lordship  will  easily  understand  that  we  are 
202 


THE  INTERVIEW. 


desirous  of  profiting  as  much  as  possible  by  your  gen- 
erosity." 

"  And  turn  your  bargain  to  the  best  advantage  ?  Noth- 
ing can  be  plainer  !    Let  us  see,  —  what's  the  price  ? " 

"  The  whole,  two  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs 
(10,400?.),  my  lord." 

"  And  you  and  Edwards  will  thus  clear  —  " 

"About  forty  thousand  francs  (1,600Z.),  my  lord." 

"  A  very  nice  sum !  But  so  much  the  better,  for, 
after  all,  I  am  very  much  satisfied  with  you,  and,  if  I 
had  to  make  my  will,  I  should  have  bequeathed  that 
sum  to  you  and  Edwards." 

And  the  vicomte  went  out,  first  to  call  on  his  creditor, 
then  on  Madame  de  Lucenay,  whom  he  did  not  suspect 
of  having  been  present  at  his  conversation  with  Badinot. 


203 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  SEAECH. 

The  Hfitel  de  Lucenay  was  one  of  those  royal  resi- 
dences of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  which  the  space 
employed,  and,  as  it  were,  lost,  make  so  vast.  A 
modern  house  might,  with  ease,  be  contained  in  the 
limits  devoted  to  the  staircase  of  one  of  these  palaces, 
and  a  whole  quarter  might  be  built  in  the  extent  they 
occupy. 

About  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  this  day  the  two 
vast  folding-doors  of  this  h6tel  opened  on  the  arrival  of 
a  magnificent  chariot,  which,  after  having  taken  a  dash- 
ing turn  in  the  spacious  courtyard,  stopped  before  the 
large  covered  flight  of  steps  which  led  to  the  first  ante- 
chamber. Whilst  the  hoofs  of  two  powerful  and  high- 
couraged  horses  sounded  on  the  echoing  pavement,  a 
gigantic  footman  opened  the  door,  emblazoned  with 
armorial  bearings,  and  a  young  man  alighted  grace- 
fully from  this  brilliant  carriage,  and  no  less  gracefully 
walked  up  the  five  or  six  steps  of  the  entrance.  This 
young  man  was  the  Vicomte  de  Saint-Remy. 

On  leaving  his  creditor,  who,  satisfied  with  the  under- 
taking of  Florestan's  father,  had  granted  the  required 
delay,  and  was  to  come  and  receive  his  money  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  Rue  de  Chaillot,  M.  de  Saint-Remy  had 
gone  to  Madame  de  Lucenay's,  to  thank  her  for  the 
fresh  service  she  had  rendered  him,  and,  not  having 
seen  the  duchess  during  the  morning,  he  came  trium- 
phant, certain  of  finding  her  in  prima  sera,  the  hour 
which  she  constantly  reserved  for  him. 

2&t 


THE  SEARCH. 


By  the  attention  of  the  footmen  in  the  antechamber, 
who  hastened  to  open  the  glass  door  as  soon  as  they 
saw  Morestan's  carriage,  by  the  profoundly  respectful 
air  with  which  the  rest  of  the  livery  all  rose  as  the 
vicomte  passed  by,  and  by  certain,  yet  almost  impercep- 
tible touches,  it  was  evident  that  here  was  the  second, 
or,  rather,  the  real  master  of  the  house. 

When  the  Due  de  Lucenay  returned  home,  with  his 
umbrella  in  his  hand  and  his  feet  protected  by  clumsy 
goloshes  (he  hated  going  out  in  a  carriage  in  the  day- 
time), the  same  domestic  evolutions  were  gone  through 
with  similar  respect;  still,  in  the  eyes  of  a  keen  ob- 
server, there  was  a  vast  difference  between  the  reception 
accorded  to  the  husband  and  that  reserved  for  the  lover. 

A  corresponding  attention  displayed  itself  in  the  foot- 
man's waiting-room  when  Plorestan  entered  it,  and  one 
of  the  valets  instantly  arose  to  announce  him  to  Madame 
de  Lucenay. 

The  vicomte  had  never  been  more  joyous,  never  felt 
himself  more  at  his  ease,  more  confident  of  himself, 
more  assured  of  conquest.  The  victory  he  had  obtained 
over  his  father  in  the  morning,  the  fresh  proof  of  attach- 
ment on  the  part  of  Madame  de  Lucenay,  the  joy  at 
having  escaped,  as  it  were,  by  a  miracle,  from  a  terrible 
situation,  his  renewed  confidence  in  his  star,  gave  his 
handsome  features  an  expression  of  boldness  and  good 
humour  which  rendered  it  still  more  captivating. 

In  fact,  he  had  never  felt  himself  more  himself.  And 
he  was  right.  Never  had  his  slender  and  graceful  figure 
displayed  a  finer  carriage,  never  had  his  look  been  more 
elevated,  never  had  his  pride  been  more  deliciously 
tickled  by  the  thought,  "The  great  lady  —  the  mis- 
tress of  this  palace  is  mine  —  is  at  my  feet !  This  very 
morning  she  waited  for  me  in  my  own  house  !  " 

Florestan  had  given  way  to  these  excessively  vain- 
glorious reflections  as  he  traversed  three  or  four  apart- 
ments, which  led  to  a  small  room  in  which  the  duchess 
205 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


usually  sat.  A  last  look  at  himself  in  a  glass  which  he 
passed  completed  the  excellent  opinion  which  Florestan 
had  of  himself.  The  valet  de  chambre  opened  the  fold- 
ing-doors of  the  salon,  and  announced,  "  Monsieur  the 
Vicomte  de  Saint-Remy  !  " 

It  is  impossible  to  paint  the  astonishment  and  indig- 
nation of  the  duchess.  She  believed  the  comte  had  not 
concealed  from  his  son  that  she  also  had  overheard  all. 

We  have  already  said  that,  on  discovering  Florestan's 
infamy,  Madame  de  Lucenay's  love,  suddenly  quenched, 
had  changed  into  the  most  frigid  disdain.  We  have  also 
said  that,  in  the  midst  of  her  errors,  her  frailties,  Ma- 
dame de  Lucenay  had  preserved  pure  and  intact  her 
feelings  of  rectitude,  honour,  and  chivalric  frankness, 
whose  strength  and  requirements  were  excessively  strong. 
She  possessed  the  better  qualities  of  her  faults,  the 
virtues  of  her  vices. 

Treating  love  as  cavalierly  as  a  man  treats  it,  she 
pushed  as  far,  nay,  further,  than  a  man,  devotion,  gen- 
erosity, courage,  and,  above  all,  intense  horror  of  all 
baseness.  Madame  de  Lucenay,  being  about  to  go  to 
a  party  in  the  evening,  was,  although  without  her 
diamonds,  dressed  with  her  accustomed  taste  and  mag- 
nificence ;  and  her  splendid  costume,  the  rouge  she  wore 
without  attempt  at  concealment,  like  a  court  lady,  up  to 
her  eyelids,  her  beauty,  which  was  especially  brilliant  at 
candle-light,  her  figure  of  a  goddess  walking  in  the 
clouds,  rendered  still  more  striking  that  noble  air  which 
no  one  displayed  to  greater  advantage  than  she  did,  and 
which  she  carried,  if  requisite,  to  a  height  of  insolence 
that  was  overwhelming. 

We  know  the  haughty  and  resolute  disposition  of  the 
duchess,  and  we  may  imagine  her  physiognomy,  her 
look,  when  the  vicomte,  advancing  towards  her,  con- 
ceited, smiling,  confident,  said,  in  a  tone  of  love : 

"  Dearest  Clotilde,  how  good  you  are  !  How  you  —  " 

The  vicomte  could  not  finish.  The  duchess  was 
206 


THE  SEARCH. 


seated,  and  had  not  risen ;  but  her  gesture,  her  glance, 
betokened  contempt,  at  once  so  calm  and  crushing  that 
Florestan  stopped  short.  He  could  not  utter  another 
word,  nor  advance  another  step.  He  had  never  before 
seen  Madame  de  Lucenay  under  this  aspect.  He  could 
not  believe  that  it  was  the  same  woman,  whom  he  had 
always  found  gentle,  tender,  and  passionately  submis- 
sive ;  for  nothing  is  more  humble,  more  timid,  than  a 
determined  woman  in  the  presence  of  the  man  whom 
she  loves  and  who  controls  her. 

His  first  surprise  past,  Florestan  was  ashamed  of  his 
weakness  ;  his  habitual  audacity  resumed  its  ascendency, 
and,  making  a  step  towards  Madame  de  Lucenay  in  order 
to  take  her  hand,  he  said,  in  his  most  insinuating  tone  : 

"  Clotilde,  what  ails  you  ?  I  never  saw  you  look  so 
lovely,  and  yet  —  " 

"  Really,  this  is  too  impudent ! "  exclaimed  the 
duchess,  recoiling  with  such  disgust  and  hauteur  that 
Florestan  was  again  overcome  with  surprise. 

Resuming  some  assurance,  he  said  to  her  : 

"Will  you,  at  least,  Clotilde,  tell  me  the  cause  of  this 
change,  sudden,  singular  as  it  is  ?  What  have  I  done  ? 
How  have  I  offended  ? " 

Without  making  any  reply,  Madame  de  Lucenay 
looked  at  him,  as  is  vulgarly  said,  from  head  to  foot, 
with  so  insulting  an  expression  that  Florestan  felt  red 
with  the  anger  which  displayed  itself  upon  his  brow,  and 
exclaimed : 

"  I  am  aware,  madame,  that  it  is  thus  you  habitually 
break  off.    Is  it  a  rupture  ihat  you  now  desire  ?  " 

"  The  question  is  singular ! "  said  Madame  de  Lucenay, 
with  a  sarcastic  laugh.  "  Learn,  sir,  that  when  a  lackey 
robs  me,  I  do  not  break  with  him,  I  turn  him  away." 

"Madame!" 

"  Oh,  a  truce  to  this  ! "  said  the  duchess,  in  a  stern 
and  peremptory  tone.    "  Your  presence  disgusts  me ! 
Why  are  you  here  ?    Have  you  not  had  your  money  ?  " 
207 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  It  is  true,  then,  as  I  guessed,  the  twenty-five  thousand 
francs  —  " 

"  Your  last  forgery  is  withdrawn,  is  it  not  ?  The 
honour  of  your  family's  name  is  saved,  —  that  is  well, 
-go!" 

"  Ah  !  believe  me  —  " 

"  I  very  much  regret  that  money,  for  it  might  have 
succoured  so  many  honest  families ;  but  it  was  neces- 
sary to  think  of  the  shame  to  your  father  and  to 
myself." 

"  So  then,  Clotilde,  you  know  all  ?  Ah,  then,  now 
nothing  is  left  me  but  to  die !  "  exclaimed  Florestan, 
in  a  most  pathetic  and  despairing  tone. 

A  burst  of  derisive  laughter  from  the  duchess  hailed 
this  tragic  exclamation,  and  she  added,  between  two  fits 
of  fresh  hilarity : 

"  I  could  never  have  believed  infamy  could  appear  so 
ridiculous !  " 

"  Madame  !  "  cried  Florestan,  his  features  contracted 
with  rage. 

The  two  folding-doors  opened  with  a  loud  noise,  and 
M.  le  Due  de  Montbrison  was  announced. 

In  spite  of  his  self-command,  Florestan  could  scarcely 
repress  the  violence  of  his  resentment,  which  any  man 
more  observing  than  the  duke  must  certainly  have 
perceived. 

M.  de  Montbrison  was  scarcely  eighteen  years  of  age. 
Let  our  readers  imagine  a  most  engaging  countenance, 
like  that  of  a  young  girl,  white  and  red,  whose  vermilion 
lips  and  downy  chin  were  slightly  shaded  by  a  nascent 
beard.  Let  them  add  to  this  large  brown  eyes,  as  yet 
timid,  but  which  in  time  would  gleam  like  a  falcon's,  a 
figure  as  graceful  as  that  of  the  duchess  herself,  and 
then,  perhaps,  they  may  have  some  idea  of  this  young 
duke,  the  Cherubino  as  complete  in  idea  as  ever  countess 
or  waiting-maid  decked  in  a  woman's  cap,  after  having 
remarked  the  ivory  whiteness  of  his  neck. 

208 


THE  SEARCH. 


The  vicomte  had  the  weakness  or  the  audacity  to 
remain. 

"  How  kind  of  you,  Conrad,  to  think  of  me  this 
evening ! "  said  Madame  de  Lucenay,  in  a  most  affec- 
tionate voice,  and  extending  her  hand  to  the  young 
duke,  who  was  about  to  shake  hands  with  his  cousin, 
but  Clotilde  raised  her  hand  a  little,  and  said  to  him 
gaily : 

"  Kiss  it,  cousin,  —  you  have  your  gloves  on." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  the  young  man, 
as  he  applied  his  lips  to  the  naked  and  charming  hand 
that  was  offered  to  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  this  evening,  Conrad?" 
inquired  Madame  de  Lucenay,  without  seeming  to  take 
the  slightest  notice  in  the  world  of  Florestan. 

"  Nothing,  cousin  ;  when  I  leave  you,  I  shall  go  to  the 
club." 

"  Indeed  you  shall  not ;  you  shall  accompany  us,  M.  de 
Lucenay  and  me,  to  Madame  de  Senneval's ;  she  gives  a 
party,  and  has  frequently  asked  me  to  introduce  you  to 
her." 

"  I  shall  be  but  too  happy." 

"  Then,  too,  I  must  tell  you  frankly  that  I  don't  like 
to  see  you  begin  so  early  with  your  habits  and  tastes  for 
clubs.  You  are  possessed  of  everything  necessary  in 
order  to  be  everywhere  welcomed,  and  even  sought  after, 
in  the  world,  and  you  ought,  therefore,  to  mix  with  it  as 
much  as  possible." 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  cousin." 

"  And  as  I  am  on  the  footing  of  a  grandmother  with 
you,  my  dear  Conrad,  I  am  determined  to  exact  a  great 
deal  from  you.  You  are  emancipated,  it  is  true,  but  I 
believe  you  will  want  a  guardian  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
and  you  must,  therefore,  consider  me  in  that  light." 

"  Most  joyfully,  happily,  cousin ! "  said  the  young  duke, 
emphatically. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  mute  rage  of  Florestan, 

209 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


who  was  standing  up,  and  leaning  with  his  elbow  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Neither  the  duke  nor  Clotilde  paid  the 
slightest  attention  to  him.  Knowing  the  rapidity  with 
which  Madame  de  Lucenay  decided,  he  imagined  she  was 
pushing  her  boldness  and  contempt  so  far  as  to  com- 
mence at  once,  and  in  his  presence,  a  regular  flirtation 
with  the  Due  de  Montbrison. 

It  was  not  so.  The  duchess  felt  for  her  cousin 
nothing  beyond  a  truly  maternal  affection,  having 
almost  seen  him  born.  But  the  young  duke  was  so 
handsome,  and  seemed  so  happy  at  the  agreeable 
reception  of  his  cousin,  that  the  jealousy,  or,  rather, 
pride  of  Florestan  was  aroused.  His  heart  writhed 
beneath  the  cruel  wounds  of  envy,  excited  by  Conrad 
de  Montbrison,  who,  rich  and  handsome,  was  beginning 
so  splendidly  that  life  of  pleasures,  enjoyments,  and 
fetes,  from  which  he,  ruined,  undone,  despised,  dis- 
honoured, was  expelled. 

M.  de  Saint-Remy  was  brave  with  that  bravery  of  the 
head,  if  we  may  so  call  it,  which  will  urge  a  man,  by 
anger  or  by  vanity,  to  face  a  duel.  But,  vitiated  and 
corrupted,  he  had  not  the  courage  of  the  heart  which 
triumphs  over  bad  inclinations,  or  which,  at  least,  gives 
the  energy  which  enables  a  man  to  escape  infamy  by  a 
voluntary  death.  Furious  at  the  bitter  contempt  of  the 
duchess,  believing  he  saw  a  successor  in  the  young  duke, 
M.  de  Saint-Remy  resolved  to  confront  Madame  de 
Lucenay  with  all  insolence,  and,  if  need  were,  to  seek  a 
quarrel  with  Conrad. 

The  duchess,  irritated  at  Florestan's  audacity,  did  not 
look  towards  him,  and  M.  de  Montbrison,  in  his  anxious 
attention  to  his  cousin,  forgetting  something  of  his  high 
breeding,  had  not  saluted  or  spoken  a  word  to  the 
vicomte,  with  whom  he  was  acquainted.  The  latter, 
advancing  to  Conrad,  whose  back  was  towards  him, 
touched  his  arm  lightly,  and  said,  in  a  dry  and  ironical 
tone: 

210 


THE  SEARCH. 


"  Good  evening,  sir ;  a  thousand  pardons  for  not 
having  observed  you  before." 

M.  de  Montbrison,  perceiving  that  he  had  really  failed 
in  politeness,  turned  around  instantly,  and  said  cordially 
to  the  vicomte : 

"  Really,  sir,  I  am  ashamed ;  but  I  hope  that  my 
cousin,  who  caused  my  forgetfulness,  will  be  my  ex- 
cuse, and  —  " 

« Conrad,"  interposed  the  duchess,  immeasurably 
annoyed  at  Florestan's  impudence,  persisting  as  he 
did  in  remaining,  as  it  were,  to  brave  her,  —  "Conrad, 
that  will  do  ;  make  no  apologies ;  it  is  not  worth  while." 

M.  de  Montbrison,  believing  that  his  cousin  was 
reproaching  him  in  joke  for  being  somewhat  too 
formal,  said,  in  a  gay  tone,  to  the  vicomte,  who  was 
livid  with  rage : 

"  I  will  not  say  more,  sir,  since  my  cousin  forbids  me. 
You  see  her  guardianship  has  begun." 

"  And  will  not  stop  when  it  begins,  my  dear  sir,  be 
assured  of  that.  Thus,  with  this  notice  (which  Madame 
la  Duchesse  will  hasten  to  fulfil,  I  have  no  doubt)  —  with 
this  notice,  I  say,  I  have  it  in  my  mind  to  make  you  a 
proposal." 

"  To  me,  sir  ?  "  said  Conrad,  beginning  to  take  offence 
at  the  sardonic  tone  of  Florestan. 

"  To  you  yourself.  I  leave  in  a  few  days  for  the 
legation  to  Gerolstein,  to  which  I  am  attached.  I  wish, 
therefore,  to  get  my  house,  completely  furnished,  and  my 
stable,  entirely  arranged,  off  my  hands ;  and  you  might 
find  it  a  suitable  arrangement;"  and  the  vicomte  inso- 
lently emphasised  his  last  words,  looking  Madame  de 
Lucenay  full  in  the  face.  "  It  would  be  very  piquant, 
would  it  not,  Madame  la  Duchesse  ? " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,"  said  M.  de  Montbrison, 
more  and  more  astonished. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Conrad,  why  you  cannot  accept  the 
offer  that  is  made  you,"  said  Clotilde. 

211 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"And  why,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  cannot  the  duke 

accept  my  offer  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Conrad,  what  is  offered  you  for  sale  is 
already  sold  to  others.  So,  you  understand,  you  would 
have  the  inconvenience  of  being  robbed  just  as  if  you 
were  in  a  wood." 

Florestan  bit  his  lips  with  rage. 

"  Take  care,  madame  !  "  he  cried. 

"  What,  threats  !  and  here,  sir  ?  "  exclaimed  Conrad. 

"Pooh,  pooh!  Conrad,  pay  no  attention,"  said 
Madame  de  Lucenay,  taking  a  lozenge  from  a  sweet- 
meat box  with  the  utmost  composure ;  "  a  man  of 
honour  ought  not  and  cannot  have  any  future  com- 
munication with  that  person.  If  he  likes,  I  will  tell 
you  why." 

A  tremendous  explosion  would  no  doubt  have 
occurred,  when  the  two  folding-doors  again  opened, 
and  the  Due  de  Lucenay  entered,  noisily,  violently, 
hurriedly,  as  was  "  his  usual  custom  in  the  after- 
noon," as  well  as  the  forenoon. 

"  Ah,  my  dear !  What,  dressed  already  ?"  said  he  to 
his  wife.  "  Why,  how  surprising !  Quite  astonishing ! 
Good  evening,  Saint-Remy ;  good  evening,  Conrad. 
Ah,  you  see  the  most  miserable  of  men;  that  is  to 
say,  I  neither  sleep  nor  eat,  but  am  completely  '  done 
up.'  Can't  reconcile  myself  to  it.  Poor  D'Harville, 
what  an  event ! "  And  M.  de  Lucenay  threw  himself 
back  in  a  sort  of  small  sofa  with  two  backs,  and,  cross- 
ing his  left  knee  over  his  right,  took  his  foot  in  his 
hand,  whilst  he  continued  to  utter  the  most  distressing 
exclamations. 

The  excitement  of  Conrad  and  Florestan  had 
time  to  calm  down,  without  being  perceived  by  M.  de 
Lucenay,  who  was  the  least  clear-sighted  man  in  the 
world. 

Madame  de  Lucenay,  not  from  embarrassment,  for 
she  was  never  embarrassed,  as  we  know,  but  because 
212 


THE  SEARCH. 


Florestan's  presence  was  as  disgusting  as  it  was  insup. 
portable,  said  to  the  duke : 

"  We  are  ready  to  go  as  soon  as  you  please.  I  am 
going  to  introduce  Conrad  to  Madame  de  Senneval." 

"  No,  no,  no ! "  cried  the  duke,  letting  go  his  foot  to 
seize  one  of  the  cushions,  on  which  he  struck  violently 
with  his  two  fists,  to  the  great  alarm  of  Clotilde,  who, 
at  the  sudden  cries  of  her  husband,  started  from  her 
chair. 

"  Monsieur,  what  ails  you  ? "  she  inquired ;  "  you 
frighten  me  exceedingly." 

"  No,"  replied  the  duke,  thrusting  the  cushion  from 
him,  rising  suddenly,  and  walking  up  and  down  with 
rapid  strides  and  gesticulations,  "  I  cannot  get  over  the 
idea  of  the  death  of  poor  dear  D'Harville ;  can  you, 
Saint-Remy?" 

"  Indeed,  it  was  a  frightful  event !  "  said  the  vicomte, 
who,  with  hatred  and  rage  in  his  heart,  kept  his  eye  on 
M.  de  Montbrison ;  but  this  latter,  after  the  last  words 
of  his  cousin,  turned  away  from  a  man  so  deeply 
degraded,  not  from  want  of  feeling,  but  from  pride. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  my  lord,"  said  the  duchess  to 
her  husband,  "  do  not  regret  the  loss  of  M.  d'Harville  in 
so  noisy  and  really  so  singular  a  manner.  Ring,  if  you 
please  for  my  carriage." 

"  Yes,  it  is  really  true,"  said  M.  de  Lucenay,  seizing 
the  bell-rope,  "  really  true  that,  three  days  ago,  he  was 
full  of  life  and  health,  and,  to-day,  what  remains  of 
him  ?    Nothing !    Nothing !    Nothing !  " 

These  three  last  exclamations  were  accompanied  by 
three  such  violent  pulls  that  the  bell-rope,  which  the 
duke  held  in  his  hand  whilst  he  was  gesticulating,  broke 
away  from  the  upper  spring,  fell  on  a  candelabra  filled 
with  lighted  wax  candles,  knocked  two  of  them  out  of 
the  sconces,  one  of  which,  falling  on  the  mantelpiece, 
broke  a  lovely  little  cup  of  old  Sevres  china ;  whilst  the 
other,  falling  on  the  ground,  rolled  on  a  fur  hearth  rug, 
213 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


which  took  flame,  but  was  soon  extinguished  under 
Conrad's  foot. 

At  the  same  moment,  two  valets  de  chambre,  sum- 
moned by  the  furious  ringing,  entered  hastily,  and  found 
M.  de  Lucenay  with  the  bell-rope  in  his  hand,  the 
duchess  laughing  heartily  at  this  ridiculous  fall  of  the 
wax  lights,  and  M.  de  Montbrison  sharing  her  mirth. 
M.  de  Saint-Remy  alone  did  not  laugh.  M.  de  Lucenay, 
quite  accustomed  to  such  accidents,  preserved  his  usual 
seriousness,  and,  throwing  the  bell-rope  to  one  of  the 
men,  said : 

"  The  duchess's  carriage." 

Clotilde,  having  somewhat  recovered  her  composure, 
said : 

"  Really,  my  lord,  there  is  no  man  in  the  world  but 
yourself  capable  of  exciting  laughter  at  so  lamentable  an 
event." 

"  Lamentable  !  Say  fearful.  Why,  now,  only  yester- 
day, I  was  recollecting  how  many  persons  in  my  own 
family  I  would  rather  should  have  died  than  poor 
D'Harville.  First,  there's  my  nephew,  D'Emberval, 
who  stutters  so  annoyingly ;  then  there's  your  Aunt 
Me'rinville,  who  is  always  talking  about  her  nerves 
and  her  headache,  and  who  always  gobbles  up  every 
day,  whilst  she  is  waiting  for  dinner,  a  mess  of  broth 
like  a  porter's  wife.  Are  you  very  fond  of  your  Aunt 
Me'rinville?" 

"  Really,  my  lord,  have  you  lost  your  wits  ? "  said  the 
duchess,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  It's  true  enough,  though,"  continued  the  duke ; 
"  one  would  give  twenty  indifferent  persons  for  one 
friend  ;  eh,  Saint-Remy  ? " 

"Unquestionably." 

"  It  is  the  old  story  of  the  tailor  over  again.    Do  you 
know  it,  Conrad,  —  the  story  of  the  tailor  ?  " 
"  No,  cousin." 

"  You  will  understand  the  allegory  at  once.    A  tailor 
214 


THE  SEARCH. 


was  going  to  be  hanged ;  he  was  the  only  tailor  in  the 
village.  What  were  the  inhabitants  to  do  ?  They  said 
to  the  judge, « Please  your  judgeship,  we  have  only  one 
tailor,  and  we  have  three  shoemakers;  if  it  is  all  the 
same  to  you,  please  to  hang  one  of  the  three  shoemakers 
in  the  place  of  the  tailor,  for  two  shoemakers  are 
enough/    Do  you  understand  the  allegory,  Conrad  ? " 

"  Yes,  cousin." 

"  And  you,  Saint-Remy  ?  " 

«  Quite." 

"  Her  grace's  carriage  ! "  said  one  of  the  servants. 

"  But,  I  say,  why  haven't  you  put  on  your  diamonds?" 
asked  M.  de  Lucenay,  abruptly ;  "  with  that  dress  they 
would  look  remarkably  well." 

Saint-Remy  shuddered. 

"  For  the  one  poor  time  we  are  going  out  together," 
continued  the  duke,  "  you  might  have  done  us  the  hon- 
our to  wear  your  diamonds.  The  duchess's  diamonds 
are  particularly  fine.  Did  you  ever  see  them,  Saint- 
Remy?" 

"  Yes,  he  knows  them  well  enough  !  "  said  Clotilde  ; 
and  then  she  added,  "  Your  arm,  Conrad." 

M.  de  Lucenay  followed  the  duchess  with  Saint-Remy, 
who  could  scarcely  repress  his  anger. 

"  Aren't  you  coming  with  us  to  the  Sennevals,  Saint- 
Remy?"  inquired  M.  de  Lucenay. 

"  No,  impossible,"  he  replied,  briefly. 

"  By  the  way,  Saint-Remy,  there's  Madame  de  Senne- 
val,  too,  —  what,  do  I  say  one  ?  There's  two  —  whom  I 
would  willingly  sacrifice,  for  her  husband  is  also  on 
my  list." 

«  What  list?" 

"  That  of  the  people  whom  I  should  not  have  cared  to 
see  die,  provided  D'Harville  had  been  left  to  us." 

At  the  moment  when  they  were  in  the  anteroom,  and 
M.  de  Montbrison  was  helping  the  duchess  on  with  her 
mantle,  M.  de  Lucenay,  addressing  his  cousin,  said  to  him : 
215 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Since  you  are  coming  with  us,  Conrad,  desire  your 
carriage  to  follow  ours ;  unless  you  will  decide  on  com- 
ing, Saint-Remy,  and  then  you  shall  take  me,  and  I  will 
tell  you  another  story  quite  as  good  as  that  of  the 
tailor." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Saint-Remy,  dryly,  "I  cannot 
accompany  you." 

"  Well,  then,  good  night,  my  dear  fellow.  Have  you 
and  my  wife  quarrelled,  for  she  is  getting  into  her 
carriage  without  saying  a  word  to  you  ? " 

And  at  this  moment,  the  duchess's  berline  having 
drawn  up  at  the  steps,  she  entered  it. 

"  Now,  cousin,"  said  Conrad,  waiting  for  M.  de 
Lucenay  with  an  air  of  deference. 

"  Get  in !  Get  in  !  "  said  the  duke,  who  had  stopped 
a  moment,  and,  from  the  door,  was  contemplating  the 
elegant  equipage  of  the  vicomte.  "Are  those  your 
grays,  Saint-Remy  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  your  jolly-looking  Edwards !  He's  what  I  call 
a  right  sort  of  coachman.  How  well  he  has  his  horses 
in  hand  !  To  do  justice,  there  is  no  one  who,  like  Saint- 
Remy,  does  things  in  such  devilish  high  style ! " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  Madame  de  Lucenay  and  your 
cousin  are  waiting  for  you,"  said  M.  de  Saint-Remy, 
with  bitterness. 

"  Pardieu  !  and  that's  true.  What  a  forgetful  rascal 
I  am !  Au  revoir,  Saint-Remy.  Ah,  I  forgot,"  said 
the  duke,  stopping  half  way  down  the  steps,  "if  you 
have  nothing  better  to  do,  come  and  dine  with  us  to- 
morrow. Lord  Dudley  has  sent  us  some  grouse  from 
Scotland,  and  they  are  out-of-the-way  things,  you  know. 
You'll  come,  won't  you  ? "  And  the  duke  sprang  into 
the  carriage  which  contained  his  wife  and  Conrad. 

Saint-Remy  remained  alone  on  the  steps,  and  saw  the 
carriage  drive  away.  His  own  then  drove  up.  He  got 
into  it,  casting  on  that  house  which  he  had  so  often 
216 


THE  SEARCH. 


entered  as  master,  and  which  now  he  so  ignominiously 
quitted,  a  look  of  anger,  hatred,  and  despair. 
"  Home  !  "  he  said,  abruptly. 

"  To  the  h6tel !  "  said  the  footman  to  Edwards,  as  he 
closed  the  door. 

We  may  imagine  how  bitter  and  desolating  were 
Saint-Remy's  thoughts  as  he  returned  to  his  house.  At 
the  moment  when  he  reached  it,  Boyer,  who  awaited 
him  at  the  portico,  said  to  him : 

"  M.  le  Comte  is  above,  and  waits  for  M.  le  Vicomte." 

"  Very  well." 

"  And  there  is  also  a  man  whom  your  lordship 
appointed  at  ten  o'clock,  —  a  M.  Petit-Jean." 

"  Very  well.  Oh,  what  an  evening  party ! "  said 
Florestan,  as  he  went  up-stairs  to  see  his  father,  whom 
he  found  in  the  salon  on  the  first  floor,  the  same  room 
in  which  their  meeting  of  the  morning  had  taken  place. 
"  A  thousand  pardons,  my  father,  that  I  was  not  await- 
ing you  when  you  arrived  ;  but  I  —  " 

"  Is  the  man  here  who  holds  the  forged  bill  ? "  in- 
quired the  comte,  interrupting  his  son. 

"  Yes,  father,  he  is  below." 

"  Desire  him  to  come  up." 

Florestan  rang,  and  Boyer  appeared. 

"  Desire  M.  Petit-Jean  to  come  up." 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  and  Boyer  withdrew. 

"  How  good  you  are,  father,  to  remember  your  kind 
promise ! " 

"  I  always  remember  what  I  promise." 

"  What  gratitude  do  I  owe  you !  How  can  I  ever 
prove  to  you  —  " 

"  I  will  not  have  my  name  dishonoured  !  It  shall  not 
be ! " 

"  It  shall  not  be !  No,  it  shall  never  be,  I  swear  to 
you,  my  father !  " 

The  comte  looked  strangely  at  his  son,  and  re- 
peated : 

217 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"No,  it  shall  never  be!"  Then  he  added,  with  a 
sarcastic  air,  "  You  are  a  prophet." 

"  I  read  my  resolution  in  my  heart." 

Florestan's  father  made  no  rejoinder.  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  with  his  two  hands  thrust  into  the 
pockets  of  his  long  coat.    He  was  very  pale. 

"  M.  Petit-Jean,"  said  Boyer,  introducing  a  man  of  a 
mean,  sordid,  and  crafty  look. 

"  Where  is  the  bill  ?  "  inquired  the  comte. 

"Here  it  is,  sir,"  said  Petit-Jean  (Jacques  Ferrand 
the  notary's  man  of  straw),  handing  the  bill  to  the 
comte. 

"  Is  this  it  ?  "  said  the  latter,  showing  the  bill  to  his 
son. 

«  Yes,  father." 

The  comte  took  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  twenty-five 
notes  of  a  thousand  francs  each,  handed  them  to  his  son, 
and  said : 

«  Pay ! " 

Florestan  paid,  and  took  the  bill  with  a  deep  sigh  of 
the  utmost  satisfaction.  M.  Petit-Jean  put  the  notes 
carefully  in  an  old  pocket-book,  made  his  bow,  and 
retired.  M.  de  Saint-Remy  left  the  salon  with  him, 
whilst  Florestan  was  very  carefully  tearing  up  the  bill. 

"At  least  Clotilde's  twenty-five  thousand  francs  are 
still  in  my  pocket,  and  if  nothing  is  revealed,  that  is  a 
comfort.  But  how  she  treated  me  !  But  what  can  my 
father  have  to  say  to  the  man  Petit-Jean  ?  " 

The  noise  of  a  door  being  double-locked  made  the 
vicomte  start.  His  father  returned  to  the  room.  His 
pallor  had  even  increased. 

"  I  fancied,  father,  I  heard  you  lock  the  door  of  my 
cabinet  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"  And  why,  my  dear  father  ?"  asked  Florestan,  greatly 
amazed. 

"  I  will  tell  you." 

218 


THE  SEARCH. 


And  the  comte  placed  himself  so  that  his  son  could 
not  pass  out  by  the  secret  staircase  which  led  to  the 
ground  floor. 

Florestan,  greatly  disquieted,  now  observed  the  sinister 
look  of  his  father,  and  followed  all  his  movements  with 
mistrust.  Without  being  able  to  account  for  it,  he  felt 
a  vague  alarm. 

"  What  ails  you,  father  ?" 

"  This  morning  when  you  saw  me,  your  only  thought 
was,  '  My  father  will  not  allow  his  name  to  be  dis- 
honoured ;  he  will  pay  if  I  can  but  contrive  to  wheedle 
him  by  some  feigned  words  of  repentance.' " 

"  Can  you  indeed  think  —  " 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me.  I  have  not  been  your  dupe  ; 
you  have  neither  shame,  regret,  nor  remorse.  You  are 
vicious  to  the  very  core,  you  have  never  felt  one 
honest  aspiration,  you  have  not  robbed  as  long  as 
you  have  been  in  possession  of  wherewithal  to  gratify 
your  caprices,  —  that  is  what  is  called  the  probity  of  rich 
persons  of  your  stamp.  Then  came  the  want  of  delicate 
feeling,  then  meannesses,  then  crime,  then  forgery.  This 
is  but  the  first  period  of  your  life,  —  it  is  bright  and 
pure  in  comparison  with  that  which  would  be  yet  to 
come." 

"  If  I  did  not  change  my  conduct,  assuredly  ;  but  I 
shall  change  it,  father,  I  have  sworn  to  you." 
"  You  will  not  change  it." 
"But  —  " 

"  You  will  not  change  it !  Expelled  from  society  in 
which  you  have  hitherto  lived,  you  would  become  very 
quickly  criminal,  like  the  wretches  amongst  whom  you 
would  be  cast,  a  thief  inevitably,  and,  if  your  need  were, 
an  assassin.    That  would  be  your  future  life." 

"  I  an  assassin  ?  —  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  because  you  are  a  coward ! " 

"  I  have  had  duels,  and  have  evinced  —  " 

"  I  tell  you,  you  are  a  coward !  You  have  already 
219 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


preferred  infamy  to  death.  A  day  would  come  in  which 
you  would  prefer  the  impunity  for  fresh  crimes  to  the 
life  of  another.  This  must  not  be,  —  I  will  not  allow  it. 
I  have  come  in  time,  at  least,  to  save  my  name  from 
public  dishonour  hereafter.  There  must  be  an  end  to 
this." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  dearest  father  ?  How  an  end 
to  this  ?  What  would  you  imply  ?  "  exclaimed  Flores- 
tan,  still  more  alarmed  at  the  fearful  expression  and  the 
increased  pallor  of  his  father's  countenance. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  violent  blow  struck  on  the 
cabinet  door.  Florestan  made  a  motion  to  go  and  open 
it,  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  a  scene  which  terrified  him ; 
but  the  comte  seized  him  with  a  hand  of  iron,  and  held 
him  fast. 

"  Who  knocks  ?  "  inquired  the  comte. 
"  In  the  name  of  the  law,  open !    Open !  "  said  a 
voice. 

"  That  forgery,  then,  was  not  the  last,"  exclaimed  the 
comte,  in  a  low  voice,  and  looking  at  his  son  with  a 
terrible  air. 

"  Yes,  my  father,  I  swear  it ! "  exclaimed  Florestan, 
endeavouring,  but  vainly,  to  extricate  himself  from  the 
vigorous  grasp  of  his  father. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  law,  open ! "  repeated  the  voice. 

"  What  is  it  you  seek  ?  "  demanded  the  comte. 

"  I  am  a  commissary  of  police,  and  I  have  come  to 
make  a  search  after  a  robbery  of  diamonds,  of  which 
M.  de  Saint-Remy  is  accused.  M.  Baudoin,  a  jeweller, 
has  proofs.  If  you  do  not  open,  sir,  I  shall  be  compelled 
to  force  open  the  door." 

"  Already  a  thief !  I  was  not  then  deceived,"  said 
the  comte,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  came  to  kill  you,  —  I 
have  delayed  too  long." 

« Kill  me?" 

"  There  is  already  too  much  dishonour  on  my  name, 
—  it  must  end.    I  have  here  two  pistols ;  you  must 
220 


THE  SEARCH. 


blow  out  your  brains,  or  I  will  blow  them  out,  and  I 
will  say  that  you  killed  yourself  in  despair  in  order 
to  escape  from  shame." 

And,  with  a  fearful  sang-froid,  the  comte  drew  a 
pistol  from  his  pocket,  and,  with  the  hand  that  was 
free,  presented  it  to  his  son,  saying : 

"Now  an  end  to  this,  if,  indeed,  you  are  not  a 
coward ! " 

After  repeated  and  ineffectual  attempts  to  free  him- 
self from  the  comte's  hand,  his  son  fell  back  aghast  and 
livid  with  fear.  He  saw  by  the  fearful  look,  the  inexo- 
rable demeanour  of  his  father,  that  he  had  no  pity  to 
expect  from  him. 

"  My  father !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  You  must  die  !  " 

"  I  repent !  " 

"It  is  too  late.  Hark!  They  are  forcing  in  the 
door!" 

"  I  will  expiate  my  faults !  " 

"  They  are  entering  !    Must  I  then  kill  you  with  my 
own  hand  ? " 
"  Pardon  ! " 

"  The  door  gives  way  !    You  will  then  have  it  so !  " 

And  the  comte  placed  the  muzzle  of  the  weapon 
against  Florestan's  breast. 

The  noise  without  announced  that  the  door  of  the 
cabinet  could  not  long  resist.  The  vicomte  saw  he 
was  lost.  A  sudden  and  desperate  resolution  lighted 
up  his  countenance.  He  no  longer  struggled  with  his 
father,  and  he  said  to  him,  with  equal  firmness  and 
resignation : 

"  You  are  right,  my  father !  Give  me  the  pistol ! 
There  is  infamy  enough  on  my  name !  The  life  in  store 
for  me  is  frightful,  and  is  not  worth  the  trouble  of  a 
struggle.  Give  me  the  pistol !  You  shall  see  if  I  am 
a  coward ! "  and  he  put  forth  his  hand  to  take  the 
pistol.  "  But,  at  least,  one  word,  —  one  single  word 
221 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


of  consolation,  —  pity,  —  farewell !  "  said  Florestan ;  and 
his  trembling  lips,  his  paleness,  his  agitated  features,  all 
betokened  the  terrible  emotion  of  this  frightful  moment. 

"  But  what  if  he  were,  indeed,  my  son !  "  thought  the 
comte,  with  terror,  and  hesitating  to  hand  him  the  deadly 
instrument.  "  If  he  were  my  son  I  ought  to  hesitate 
before  such  a  sacrifice." 

A  loud  cracking  of  the  cabinet  door  announced  that 
it  was  being  forced. 

"  My  father,  they  are  coming !  Oh,  now  I  feel  that 
death  is  indeed  a  benefit.  Yes,  now  I  thank  you !  But, 
at  least,  your  hand,  —  and  forgive  me  !  " 

In  spite  of  his  sternness,  the  comte  could  not  repress 
a  shudder,  as  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  emotion : 

"  I  forgive  you." 

"  My  father,  the  door  opens ;  go  to  them,  that,  at 
least,  they  may  not  even  suspect  you.  Besides,  if  they 
enter  here,  they  will  prevent  me  from  completing,  — 
adieu!" 

The  steps  of  several  persons  were  heard  in  the  next 
room.  Florestan  placed  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol  to  his 
heart.  It  went  off  at  the  instant  when  the  comte,  to 
avoid  the  horrid  sight,  turned  away  his  head,  and 
rushed  out  of  the  salon,  whose  curtains  closed  upon 
him. 

At  the  sound  of  this  explosion,  at  the  sight  of  the 
comte,  pale  and  haggard,  the  commissary  stopped  short 
at  the  threshold  of  the  door,  making  a  sign  to  his  agents 
to  pause  also. 

Informed  by  Boyer  that  the  vicomte  was  shut  up  with 
his  father,  the  magistrate  understood  all,  and  respected 
his  deep  grief. 

"  Dead  !  "  exclaimed  the  comte,  hiding  his  face  in 
his  hands.  "  Dead  ! "  he  repeated  in  a  tone  of  agony. 
"  It  was  just,  —  better  death  than  infamy !  But  it  is 
horrible ! " 

"Sir,"  said  the  magistrate,  sorrowfully,  after  a  few 
222 


THE  SEARCH. 


minutes'  silence,  "  spare  yourself  a  painful  spectacle,  — 
leave  the  house.  And  now  I  have  another  duty  to 
fulfil,  even  more  painful  than  that  which  summoned 
me  hither." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  sir,"  said  M.  de  Saint-Remy ; 
"as  to  the  sufferer  by  this  robbery,  you  will  request 
him  to  call  on  M.  Dupont,  the  banker." 

"In  the  Rue  Richelieu?  He  is  very  well  known," 
replied  the  magistrate. 

"What  is  the  estimated  value  of  the  stolen  dia- 
monds ?  " 

"  About  thirty  thousand  francs.  The  person  who 
bought  them,  and  by  whom  the  fraud  was  detected, 
gave  that  amount  for  them  to  your  son." 

"  I  can  still  pay  it,  sir.  Let  the  jeweller  go  to  my 
banker  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  I  will  have  it  all 
arranged." 

The  commissary  bowed.    The  comte  left  the  room. 

After  the  departure  of  the  latter,  the  magistrate, 
deeply  affected  by  this  unlooked-for  scene,  went  slowly 
towards  the  salon,  the  curtains  of  which  were  closed. 
He  moved  them  on  one  side  with  agitation. 

"  Nobody ! "  he  exclaimed,  amazed  beyond  measure, 
and  looking  around  him,  unable  to  see  the  least  trace 
of  the  tragic  event  which  he  believed  had  just  occurred. 
!  Then,  seeing  a  small  door  in  the  panel  of  the  apart- 
ment, he  went  towards  it.  It  was  fastened  in  the  side 
of  the  secret  staircase. 

"  It  was  a  trick,  and  he  has  escaped  by  this  door ! "  he 
exclaimed,  with  vexation. 

And  in  fact,  the  vicomte,  having  in  his  father's  pres- 
ence placed  the  pistol  on  his  heart,  had  very  dexterously 
fired  it  under  his  arm,  and  rapidly  made  off. 

In  spite  of  the  most  careful  search  throughout  the 
house,  they  could  not  discover  Florestan. 

During  the  conversation  with  his  father  and  the  com- 
223 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


missary,  he  had  quickly  gained  the  boudoir,  then  the 
conservatory,  then  the  lone  alley,  and  so  to  the  Champs 
Elyse'es. 

The  picture  of  this  ignoble  degradation  in  opulence  is 
a  sad  thing. 

We  are  aware  of  it.  But  for  want  of  warnings,  the 
richer  classes  have  also  fatally  their  miseries,  vices, 
crimes.  Nothing  is  more  frequent  and  more  afflicting 
than  those  insensate,  barren  prodigalities  which  we  have 
now  described,  and  which  always  entail  ruin,  loss  of 
consideration,  baseness,  or  infamy.  It  is  a  deplorable, 
sad  spectacle,  just  like  contemplating  a  flourishing  field 
of  wheat  destroyed  by  a  herd  of  wild  beasts.  No  doubt 
that  inheritance,  property,  are,  and  ought  to  be,  invio- 
lable, sacred.  Wealth  acquired  or  transmitted  ought  to 
be  able  to  shine  with  impunity  and  magnificently  in  the 
eyes  of  the  poor  and  suffering  masses.  We  must,  too, 
see  those  frightful  disproportions  which  exist  between 
the  millionaire  Saint-Remy,  and  the  artisan  Morel.  But, 
inasmuch  as  these  inevitable  disproportions  are  conse- 
crated, protected  by  the  law,  so  those  who  possess  such 
wealth  ought  morally  to  be  accountable  to  those  who 
have  only  probity,  resignation,  courage,  and  desire  to 
labour. 

In  the  eyes  of  reason,  human  right,  and  even  of  a 
well-understood  social  interest,  a  great  fortune  should 
be  a  hereditary  deposit,  confided  to  prudent,  firm,  skil- 
ful, generous  hands,  which,  entrusted  at  the  same  time 
to  fructify  and  expend  this  fortune,  know  how  to  fertilise, 
vivify,  and  ameliorate  all  that  should  have  the  felicity  to 
find  themselves  within  the  scope  of  its  splendid  and 
salutary  rays. 

And  sometimes  it  is  so,  but  the  instances  are  very 
rare.  How  many  young  men,  like  Saint-Remy,  masters 
at  twenty  of  a  large  patrimony,  spend  it  foolishly  in 
idleness,  in  waste,  in  vice,  for  want  of  knowing  how  to 
224 


THE  SEARCH. 


employ  their  wealth  more  advantageously  either  for 
themselves  or  for  the  public.  Others,  alarmed  at  the 
instability  of  human  affairs,  save  in  the  meanest  man- 
ner. Thus  there  are  those  who,  knowing  that  a  fixed 
fortune  always  diminishes,  give  themselves  up,  fools  or 
rogues,  to  that  hazardous,  immoral  gaming,  which  the 
powers  that  be  encourage  and  patronise. 

How  can  it  be  otherwise  ?  Who  imparts  to  inexperi- 
enced youth  that  knowledge,  that  instruction,  those 
rudiments  of  individual  and  social  economy  ?    No  one. 

The  rich  man  is  thrown  into  the  heart  of  society  with 
his  riches,  as  the  poor  man  Bwith  his  poverty.  No  one 
takes  any  more  care  of  the  superfluities  of  the  one  than 
of  the  wants  of  the  other.  No  one  thinks  any  more  of 
making  the  one  moralise  than  the  other.  Ought  not 
power  to  fulfil  this  great  and  noble  task  ? 

If,  taking  to  its  pity  the  miseries,  the  continually 
increasing  troubles,  of  the  still  resigned  workmen,  re- 
pressing a  rivalry  injurious  to  all,  and,  addressing  itself 
finally  to  the  imminent  question  of  the  organisation  of 
labour,  it  gave  itself  the  salutary  lesson  of  the  associa- 
tion of  capital  and  labour ;  and  if  there  were  an  honour- 
able, intelligent,  equitable  association,  which  should 
assure  the  well-doing  of  the  artisan,  without  injuring 
the  fortune  of  the  rich,  and  which,  establishing  between 
the  two  classes  the  bonds  of  affection  and  gratitude, 
would  for  ever  keep  safeguard  over  the  tranquillity  of 
the  state,  —  how  powerful,  then,  would  be  the  conse- 
quences of  such  a  practical  instruction ! 

Amongst  the  rich,  who  then  would  hesitate  as  to 
the  dishonourable,  disastrous  chances  of  stock-jobbing, 
the  gross  pleasures  of  avarice,  the  foolish  vanities  of 
a  ruinous  dissipation ;  or,  a  means  at  once  remuner- 
ative and  beneficial,  which  would  shed  ease,  morality, 
happiness,  and  joy,  over  scores  of  families  ? 


225 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  ADIEUX. 

The  day  after  that  on  which  the  Comte  de  Saint- 
Remy  had  been  so  shamefully  tricked  by  his  son,  a 
touching  scene  took  place  at  St.  Lazare  at  the  hour  of 
recreation  amongst  the  prisoners. 

On  this  day,  during  the  walk  of  the  other  prisoners, 
Fleur-de-Marie  was  seated  on  a  bench  close  to  the  foun- 
tain of  the  courtyard,  which  was  already  named  "  La 
Goualeuse's  Bench."  By  a  kind  of  taciturn  agreement, 
the  prisoners  had  entirely  given  up  this  seat  to  her,  as 
she  had  evinced  a  marked  preference  for  it,  —  for  the 
young  girl's  influence  had  decidedly  increased.  La 
Goualeuse  had  selected  this  bench,  situated  close  to 
the  basin,  because  the  small  quantity  of  moss  which 
velveted  the  margin  of  the  reservoir  reminded  her  of 
the  verdure  of  the  fields,  as  the  clear  water  with  which 
it  was  filled  reminded  her  of  the  small  river  of  Bouque- 
val.  To  the  saddened  gaze  of  a  prisoner  a  tuft  of  grass 
is  a  meadow,  a  flower  is  a  garden. 

Relying  on  the  kind  promises  of  Madame  d'Harville, 
Fleur-de-Marie  had  for  two  days  expected  her  release 
from  St.  Lazare.  Although  she  had  no  reason  for 
being  anxious  about  the  delay  in  her  discharge,  the 
young  girl,  from  her  experience  in  misfortune,  scarcely 
ventured  to  hope  for  a  speedy  liberation.  Since  her 
return  amongst  creatures  whose  appearance  revived  at 
each  moment  in  her  mind  the  incurable  memory  of  her 
early  disgrace,  Fleur-de-Marie's  sadness  had  become 
226 


THE  ADIEUX. 


more  and  more  overwhelming.  This  was  not  all.  A 
new  subject  of  trouble,  distress,  and  almost  alarm  to  her, 
had  arisen  from  the  impassioned  excitement  of  her 
gratitude  towards  Rodolph. 

It  was  strange,  but  she  only  fathomed  the  depth  of 
the  abyss  into  which  she  had  been  plunged,  in  order  to 
measure  the  distance  which  separated  her  from  him 
whose  perfection  appeared  to  her  more  than  human, 
from  this  man  whose  goodness  was  so  extreme,  and  his 
power  so  terrible  to  the  wicked.  In  spite  of  the  respect 
with  which  her  adoration  for  him  was  imbued,  some- 
times, alas !  Fleur-de-Marie  feared  to  detect  in  this 
adoration  the  symptoms  of  love,  but  of  a  love  as  secret 
as  it  was  deep,  as  chaste  as  it  was  secret,  and  as  hopeless 
as  it  was  chaste.  The  unhappy  girl  had  not  thought  of 
reading  this  withering  revelation  in  her  heart  until  after 
her  interview  with  Madame  d'Harville,  who  was  herself 
smitten  with  a  love  for  Rodolph,  of  which  he  himself  was 
ignorant. 

After  the  departure  and  the  promises  of  the  marquise, 
Fleur-de-Marie  should  have  been  transported  with  joy 
on  thinking  of  her  friends  at  Bouqueval,  of  Rodolph 
whom  she  was  again  about  to  see.  But  she  was  not. 
Her  heart  was  painfully  distressed,  and  to  her  memory 
occurred  incessantly  the  severe  language,  the  haughty 
scrutiny,  the  angry  looks,  of  Madame  d'Harville,  as  the 
poor  prisoner  had  been  excited  to  enthusiasm  when 
alluding  to  her  benefactor.  By  singular  intuition  La 
Goualeuse  had  thus  detected  a  portion  of  Madame 
d'Harville' s  secret. 

"  The  excess  of  my  gratitude  to  M.  Rodolph  offended 
this  young  lady,  so  handsome  and  of  such  high  rank," 
thought  Fleur-de-Marie ;  "  now  I  comprehend  the  se- 
verity of  her  words,  they  expressed  a  jealous  disdain. 
She  jealous  of  me !  Then  she  must  love  him,  and  I  must 
love,  too  —  him  ?  Yes,  and  my  love  must  have  betrayed 
itself  in  spite  of  me  !  Love  him,  —  I  —  I  —  a  creature 
227 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


fallen  for  ever,  ungrateful  and  wretched  as  I  am !  Oh, 
if  it  were  so,  death  were  a  hundred  times  preferable  !  " 

Let  us  hasten  to  say  that  the  unhappy  girl,  thus  a 
martyr  to  her  feelings,  greatly  exaggerated  what  she 
called  her  love. 

To  her  profound  gratitude  towards  Rodolph  was  united 
involuntary  admiration  of  the  gracefulness,  strength,  and 
manly  beauty  which  distinguished  him  from  other  men. 
Nothing  could  be  less  gross,  more  pure,  than  this  admira- 
tion ;  but  it  existed  in  full  and  active  force,  because 
physical  beauty  is  always  attractive.  And  then  the 
voice  of  blood,  so  often  denied,  mute,  unknown,  or  mis- 
interpreted, is  sometimes  in  full  force,  and  these  throbs 
of  passionate  tenderness  which  attracted  Fleur-de-Marie 
towards  Rodolph,  and  which  so  greatly  startled  her, 
because  in  her  ignorance  she  misinterpreted  their  tend- 
ency, these  feelings  resulted  from  mysterious  sympathies, 
as  palpable,  but  as  inexplicable,  as  the  resemblance  of 
features.  In  a  word,  Fleur-de-Marie,  on  learning  that 
she  was  Rodolph's  daughter,  could  have  accounted  to 
herself  for  the  strong  affection  she  had  for  him,  and 
thus,  completely  enlightened  on  the  point,  she  would 
have  admired  without  a  scruple  her  father's  manly 
beauty. 

Thus  do  we  explain  Fleur-de-Marie's  dejection.  Al- 
though she  was  every  instant  awaiting,  according  to 
Madame  d'Harville's  promise,  her  release  from  St. 
Lazare,  Fleur-de-Marie,  melancholy  and  pensive,  was 
seated  on  her  bench  near  the  basin,  looking  with  a  kind 
of  mechanical  interest  at  the  sports  .of  some  bold  little 
birds  who  came  to  play  on  the  margin  of  the  stone-work. 
She  had  ceased  for  an  instant  to  work  at  a  baby's  night- 
gown, which  she  had  just  finished  hemming.  Need  we 
say  that  this  nightgown  belonged  to  the  lying-in  clothes 
so  generously  offered  to  Mont  Saint-Jean  by  the  prison- 
ers, through  the  kind  intervention  of  Fleur-de-Marie  ? 
The  poor  misshapen  protegee  of  La  Goualeuse  was  sitting 
228 


THE  ADIEUX. 


at  her  feet,  working  at  a  small  cap,  and,  from  time  to 
time,  casting  at  her  benefactress  a  look  at  once  grateful, 
timid,  and  confiding,  such  a  look  as  a  dog  throws  at  his 
master.  The  beauty,  attraction,  and  delicious  sweetness 
of  Fleur-de-Marie  had  inspired  this  fallen  creature  with 
sentiments  of  the  most  profound  respect. 

There  is  always  something  holy  and  great  in  the  aspi- 
rations of  a  heart,  which,  although  degraded,  yet  feels  for 
the  first  time  sensations  of  gratitude  ;  and,  up  to  this  time, 
no  one  had  ever  given  Mont  Saint-Jean  the  opportunity 
of  even  testifying  whether  or  not  she  could  comprehend 
the  religious  ardour  of  a  sentiment  so  wholly  unknown 
to  her.  After  some  moments  Fleur-de-Marie  shuddered 
slightly,  wiped  a  tear  from  her  eyes,  and  resumed  her 
sewing  with  much  activity. 

"  You  will  not  then  leave  off  your  work  even  during  the 
time  for  rest,  my  good  angel  ?"  said  Mont  Saint-Jean  to 
La  Goualeuse. 

"  I  have  not  given  you  any  money  towards  buying 
your  lying-in  clothes,  and  I  must  therefore  furnish  my 
part  with  my  own  work,"  replied  the  young  girl. 

"  Your  part !  Why,  but  for  you,  instead  of  this  good 
white  linen,  this  nice  warm  wrapper  for  my  child,  I 
should  have  nothing  but  the  rags  they  dragged  in  the 
mud  of  the  yard.  I  am  very  grateful  to  my  companions 
who  have  been  so  very  kind  to  me  ;  that's  quite  true ! 
But  you !  —  ah,  you !  —  how  can  I  tell  you  all  I  feel  ?  " 
added  the  poor  creature,  hesitating,  and  greatly  embar- 
rassed how  to  express  her  thought.  "  There,"  she  said, 
"  there  is  the  sun,  is  it  not  ?    That  is  the  sun  ? " 

"  Yes,  Mont  Saint-Jean ;  I  am  attending  to  you,"  re- 
plied Fleur-de-Marie,  stooping  her  lovely  face  towards 
the  hideous  countenance  of  her  companion. 

"Ah,  you'll  laugh  at  me,"  she  replied,  sorrowfully. 
"  I  want  to  say  something,  and  I  do  not  know  how." 

"  Oh,  yes,  say  it,  Mont  Saint-Jean ! " 

"  How  kind  you  look  always,"  said  the  prisoner,  look 
229 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 


ing  at  Fleur-de-Marie  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  ;  "  your  eyes 
encourage  me,  —  those  kind  eyes  !  Well,  then,  I  will  try 
and  say  what  I  wish  :  There  is  the  sun,  is  it  not  ?  It  is  so 
warm,  it  lights  up  the  prison,  it  is  very  pleasant  to  see 
and  feel,  isn't  it  ?  " 
"  Certainly." 

"  But  I  have  an  idea, —  the  sun  didn't  make  itself,  and 
if  we  are  grateful  to  it,  why,  there  is  greater  reason  still 
why  —  " 

«  Why  we  should  be  grateful  to  him  who  created  it ; 
that  is  what  you  mean,  Mont  Saint- J ean  ?  You  are 
right;  and  we  ought  to  pray  to,  adore  him,  —  he  is 
God ! " 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  idea !  "  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  joy- 
ously. "  That  is  it !  I  ought  to  be  grateful  to  my  com- 
panions, but  I  ought  to  pray  to,  adore  you,  Goualeuse, 
for  it  is  you  who  made  them  so  good  to  me,  instead  of 
being  so  unkind  as  they  had  been." 

"  It  is  God  you  should  thank,  Mont  Saint-Jean,  and 
not  me." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  it  is  you,  I  see  you ;  and  it  is  you  who 
did  me  such  kindness,  by  yourself  and  others." 

"  But  if  I  am  as  good  as  you  say,  Mont  Saint-Jean,  it 
is  God  who  has  made  me  so,  and  it  is  he,  therefore, 
whom  we  ought  to  thank." 

"  Ah,  indeed,  it  may  be  so  since  you  say  it ! "  replied 
the  prisoner,  whose  mind  was  by  no  means  decided ; 
"  and  if  you  desire  it,  let  it  be  so ;  as  you  please." 

"Yes,  my  poor  Mont  Saint-Jean,  pray  to  him  con- 
stantly, that  is  the  best  way  of  proving  to  me  that  you 
love  me  a  little." 

"  If  I  love  you,  Goualeuse  ?  Don't  you  remember, 
then,  what  you  said  to  those  other  prisoners  to  prevent 
them  from  beating  me  ?  — '  It  is  not  only  her  whom  you 
beat,  it  is  her  child  also  ! '  Well,  it  is  all  the  same  as  the 
way  I  love  you ;  it  is  not  only  for  myself  that  I  love 
you,  but  also  for  my  child." 

230 


THE  ADIEUX. 


"Thanks,  thanks,  Mont  Saint-Jean,  you  please  me 
exceedingly  when  you  say  that."  And  Fleur-de-Marie, 
much  moved,  extended  her  hand  to  her  companion. 

"  What  a  pretty,  little,  fairy-like  hand  !  How  white  and 
small ! "  said  Mont  Saint-Jean,  receding  as  though  she 
were  afraid  to  touch  it  with  her  coarse  and  clumsy  hands. 

Yet,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  respectfully  ap- 
plied her  lips  to  the  end  of  the  slender  fingers  which 
Fleur-de-Marie  extended  to  her,  then,  kneeling  suddenly, 
she  fixed  on  her  an  attentive,  concentrated  look. 

"  Come  and  sit  here  by  me,"  said  La  Goualeuse. 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  ;  never,  never  !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Respect  discipline,  as  my  brave  Mont  Saint-Jean 
used  to  say ;  soldiers  together,  officers  together,  each 
with  his  equals." 

"  You  are  crazy ;  there  is  no  difference  between  us 
two." 

"  No  difference  !  And  you  say  that  when  I  see  you,  as 
I  do  now,  as  handsome  as  a  queen.  Oh,  what  do  you 
mean  now  ?  Leave  me  alone,  on  my  knees,  that  I  may 
look  at  you  as  I  do  now.  Who  knows,  although  I  am 
a  real  monster,  my  child  may  perhaps  resemble  you  ? 
They  say  that  sometimes  happens  from  a  look." 

Then  by  a  scruple  of  incredible  delicacy  in  a  creature 
of  her  position,  fearing,  perhaps,  that  she  had  humiliated 
or  wounded  Fleur-de-Marie  by  her  strange  desire,  Mont 
Saint-Jean  added,  sorrowfully : 

"  No,  no,  I  was  only  joking,  Goualeuse  ;  I  never  could 
allow  myself  to  look  at  you  with  such  an  idea,  —  unless 
with  your  free  consent.  If  my  child  is  as  ugly  as  I  am, 
what  shall  I  care  ?  I  sha'n't  love  it  any  the  less,  poor 
little,  unhappy  thing ;  it  never  asked  to  be  born,  as  they 
say.  And  if  it  lives  what  will  become  of  it  ? "  she 
added,  with  a  mournful  and  reflective  air.  "  Alas,  yes, 
what  will  become  of  us  ?  " 

La  Goualeuse  shuddered  at  these  words.  In  fact, 
231 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


what  was  to  become  of  the  child  of  this  miserable,  de- 
graded, abased,  poor,  despised  creature  ? 

"  "What  a  fate  !    What  a  future  !  " 

"  Do  not  think  of  that,  Mont  Saint-Jean,"  said  Fleur- 
de-Marie  ;  "  let  us  hope  that  your  child  will  find  benevo- 
lent friends  in  its  way." 

"  That  chance  never  occurs  twice,  Goualeuse,"  replied 
Mont  Saint-Jean,  bitterly,  and  shaking  her  head.  "  I  have 
met  with  you,  that  is  a  great  chance  ;  and  then  —  no 
offence  —  I  should  much  rather  my  child  had  had  that 
good  luck  than  myself,  and  that  wish  is  all  I  can  do  for 
it!" 

"  Pray,  pray,  and  God  will  hear  you." 

"Well,  I  will  pray,  if  that  is  any  pleasure  to  you, 
Goualeuse,  for  it  may  perhaps  bring  me  good  luck.  In- 
deed, who  could  have  thought,  when  La  Louve  beat  me, 
and  I  was  the  butt  of  all  the  world,  that  I  should  meet 
with  my  little  guardian  angel,  who  with  her  pretty  soft 
voice  would  be  even  stronger  than  all  the  rest,  and  that 
La  Louve  who  is  so  strong  and  so  wicked  —  " 

"  Yes,  but  La  Louve  became  very  good  to  you  as  soon 
as  she  reflected  that  you  were  doubly  to  be  pitied." 

"  Yes,  that  is  very  true,  thanks  to  you  ;  I  shall  never 
forget  it.  But,  tell  me,  Goualeuse,  why  did  she  the 
other  day  request  to  have  her  quarters  changed,  —  La 
Louve,  she,  who,  in  spite  of  her  passionate  temper, 
seemed  unable  to  do  without  you  ?  " 

"  She  is  rather  wilful." 

"  How  odd  !  A  woman,  who  came  this  morning  from 
the  quarter  of  the  prison  where  La  Louve  now  is,  says 
that  she  is  wholly  changed." 

"  How?" 

"  Instead  of  quarrelling  and  contending  with  every- 
body, she  is  sad,  quite  sad,  and  sits  by  herself,  and  if 
they  speak  to  her  she  turns  her  back  and  makes  no 
answer.  It  is  really  wonderful  to  see  her  quite  still, 
who  used  always  to  be  making  such  a  riot ;  and  then 
232 


THE  ADIEUX. 


the  woman  says  another  thing,  which  I  really  cannot 
believe." 

«  And  what  is  that  ? " 

"  Why,  that  she  had  seen  La  Louve  crying ;  La  Louve 
crying,  —  that's  impossible !  " 

"Poor  Louve!  It  was  on  my  account  she  changed 
her  quarters ;  I  vexed  her  without  intending  it,"  said  La 
Goualeuse,  with  a  sigh. 

"  You  vex  any  one,  my  good  angel  ?  " 

At  this  moment,  the  inspectress,  Madame  Armand, 
entered  the  yard.  After  having  looked  for  Fleur-de- 
Marie,  she  came  towards  her  with  a  smiling  and  satisfied 
air. 

"  Good  news,  my  child." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  madame  ?  "  said  La  Goualeuse, 
rising. 

"  Your  friends  have  not  forgotten  you,  they  have  ob- 
tained your  discharge ;  the  governor  has  just  received 
the  information." 

"  Can  it  be  possible,  madame  ?    Ah,  what  happiness  ! " 

Fleur-de-Marie's  emotion  was  so  violent  that  she 
turned  pale,  placed  her  hand  on  her  heart,  which  throbbed 
violently,  and  fell  back  on  the  seat. 

"  Don't  agitate  yourself,  my  poor  girl,"  said  Madame 
Armand,  kindly.  "  Fortunately  these  shocks  are  not 
dangerous." 

'.*  Ah,  madame,  what  gratitude  !  " 

"  No  doubt  it  is  Madame  d'Harville  who  has  obtained 
your  liberty.  There  is  an  elderly  female  charged  to  con- 
duct you  to  the  persons  who  are  interested  in  you.  Wait 
for  me,  I  will  return  for  you  ;  I  have  some  directions  to 
give  in  the  work-room." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  paint  the  expression  of  extreme 
desolation  which  overcast  the  features  of  Mont  Saint- 
Jean,  when  she  learned  that  her  good  angel,  as  she  called 
La  Goualeuse,  was  about  to  quit  St.  Lazare.  This 
woman's  grief  was  less  caused  by  the  fear  of  becoming 
233 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


again  the  ill-used  butt  of  the  prison,  than  by  her  anguish 
at  seeing  herself  separated  from  the  only  being  who  had 
ever  testified  any  interest  in  her. 

Still  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  bench,  Mont  Saint-Jean 
lifted  both  her  hands  to  the  sides  of  her  matted  and 
coarse  hair,  which  projected  in  disorder  from  the  sides  of 
her  old  black  cap,  as  if  to  tear  them  out ;  then  this  deep 
affliction  gave  way  to  dejection,  and  she  drooped  her  head 
and  remained  mute  and  motionless,  with  her  face  hidden 
in  her  hands,  and  her  elbows  resting  on  her  knees. 

In  spite  of  her  joy  at  leaving  the  prison,  Fleur-de- 
Marie  could  not  help  shuddering  when  she  thought  for 
an  instant  of  the  Chouette  and  the  Schoolmaster,  recol- 
lecting that  these  two  monsters  had  made  her  swear 
never  to  inform  her  benefactors  of  her  wretched  fate. 
But  these  dispiriting  thoughts  were  soon  effaced  from 
Fleur-de-Marie's  mind  before  the  hope  of  seeing  Bouque- 
val  once  more,  with  Madame  Georges  and  Rodolph,  to 
whom  she  meant  to  intercede  for  La  Louve  and  Martial. 
It  even  seemed  to  her  that  the  warm  feeling  which  she 
reproached  herself  for  having  of  her  benefactor,  being  no 
longer  nourished  by  sadness  and  solitude,  would  be 
calmed  down  as  soon  as  she  resumed  her  rustic  occupa- 
tions, which  she  so  much  delighted  in  sharing  with  the 
good  and  simple  inhabitants  of  the  farm. 

Astonished  at  the  silence  of  her  companion,  a  silence 
whose  source  she  did  not  suspect,  La  Goualeuse  touched 
her  gently  on  the  shoulder,  saying  to  her : 

"  Mont  Saint-Jean,  as  I  am  now  free,  can  I  be  in  any 
way  useful  to  you  ?  " 

The  prisoner  trembled  as  she  felt  La  Goualeuse's 
hand  upon  her,  let  her  hands  drop  on  her  knees,  and 
turned  towards  the  young  girl,  her  face  streaming  with 
tears.  So  bitter  a  grief  overspread  the  features  of 
Mont  Saint-Jean  that  their  ugliness  had  disappeared. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  said  La  Goualeuse.  "  You 
are  weeping ! " 

234 


THE  ADIEUX. 


"  You  are  going  away !  "  murmured  the  poor  prisoner, 
with  a  voice  broken  by  sobs.  "  And  I  had  never  thought 
that  you  would  go  away,  and  that  I  should  never  see  you 
more,  —  never,  no,  never  !" 

"  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  always  think  of  your  good 
feeling  towards  me,  Mont  Saint-Jean." 

"  Oh,  and  to  think  how  I  loved  you,  when  I  was  sit- 
ting there  at  your  feet  on  the  ground  !  It  seemed  as  if 
I  was  saved,  —  that  I  had  nothing  more  to  fear !  It 
was  not  for  the  blows  which  the  other  women  may,  per- 
haps, begin  again  to  give  me  that  I  said  that  I  have  led 
a  hard  life  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  my  good 
fortune,  and  would  bring  good  luck  to  my  child,  just 
because  you  had  pity  on  me.  But,  then,  when  one  is 
used  to  be  ill-treated,  one  is  then  more  sensible  than 
others  to  kindness."  Then,  interrupting  herself,  to 
burst  again  into  a  loud  fit  of  sobs,  — "  Well,  well,  it's 
done,  —  it's  finished,  —  all  over !  And  so  it  must  be 
some  day  or  other.  I  was  wrong  to  think  any 
otherwise.    It's  done  —  done  —  done  !  " 

"  Courage !  Courage !  I  will  think  of  you,  as  you 
will  remember  me." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  they  may  tear  me  to  pieces  before 
they  shall  ever  make  me  forget  you  !  I  may  grow  old, 
—  as  old  as  the  streets,  —  but  I  shall  always  have  your 
angel  face  before  me.  The  first  word  I  will  teach  my 
child  shall  be  your  name,  Goualeuse ;  for  but  for  you  it 
would  have  perished  with  cold." 

"Listen  to  me,  Mont  Saint-Jean!"  said  Fleur-de- 
Marie,  deeply  affected  by  the  attachment  of  this  un- 
happy woman.  "  I  cannot  promise  to  do  anything  for 
you,  although  I  know  some  very  charitable  persons ;  but, 
for  your  child,  it  is  a  different  thing ;  it  is  wholly  inno- 
cent ;  and  the  persons  of  whom  I  speak  will,  perhaps, 
take  charge  of  it,  and  bring  it  up,  when  you  can  resolve 
on  parting  from  it." 

"  Part  from  it !  Never,  oh,  never  !  "  exclaimed  Mont 
235 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Saint-Jean,  with  excitement.  "  What  would  become  of 
me  now,  when  I  have  so  built  upon  it  ? " 

"  But  how  will  you  bring  it  up  ?  Boy  or  girl,  it  ought 
to  be  made  honest ;  and  for  that  —  " 

"  It  must  eat  honest  bread.  I  know  that,  Goualeuse, 
—  I  believe  it.  It  is  my  ambition ;  and  I  say  so  to 
myself  every  day.  So,  in  leaving  here,  I  will  never  put 
my  foot  under  a  bridge  again.  I  will  turn  rag-picker, 
street-sweeper,  —  something  honest;  for  I  owe  that,  if 
not  to  myself,  at  least  to  my  child,  when  I  have  the 
honour  of  having  one,"  she  added,  with  a  sort  of  pride. 

"  And  who  will  take  care  of  your  child  whilst  you 
are  at  work  ?  "  inquired  the  Goualeuse.  "  Will  it  not 
be  better,  if  possible,  as  I  hope  it  will  be,  to  put  it  in 
the  country  with  some  worthy  people,  who  will  make 
a  good  country  girl  or  a  stout  farmer's  boy  of  it  ? 
You  can  come  and  see  it  from  time  to  time ;  and  one 
day  you  may,  perhaps,  find  the  means  to  live  near  it 
constantly.    In  the  country,  one  lives  on  so  little  ! " 

"  Yes,  but  to  separate  myself  from  it,  —  to  separate 
myself  from  it!  It  would  be  my  only  joy, —  I,  who 
have  nothing  else  in  the  world  to  love,  —  nothing  that 
loves  me!  " 

"  You  must  think  more  of  it  than  of  yourself,  my  poor 
Mont  Saint-Jean.  In  two  or  three  days  I  will  write  to 
Madame  Armand,  and  if  the  application  I  mean  to  make 
in  favour  of  your  child  should  succeed,  you  will  have  no 
occasion  to  say  to  it,  as  you  said  so  painfully  just  now, 
<  Alas  !   What  will  become  of  it  ? "' 

Madame  Armand  interrupted  this  conversation,  and 
came  to  seek  Fleur-de-Marie.  After  having  again  burst 
into  sobs,  and  bathed  with  her  despairing  tears  the 
young  girl's  hands,  Mont  Saint-Jean  fell  on  the  seat 
perfectly  overcome,  not  even  thinking  of  the  promise 
which  Fleur-de-Marie  had  just  made  with  respect  to 
her  child. 

"  Poor  creature ! "  said   Madame   Armand,  as  she 

236 


THE  ADIEUX. 


quitted  the  yard,  accompanied  by  Fleur-de-Marie,  "  her 
gratitude  towards  you  gives  me  a  better  opinion  of  her." 

Learning  that  La  Goualeuse  was  discharged,  the  other 
prisoners,  far  from  envying  her  this  favour,  displayed 
their  delight.  Some  of  them  surrounded  Fleur-de- 
Marie,  and  took  leave  of  her  with  adieux  full  of 
cordiality,  frankly  congratulating  her  on  her  speedy 
release  from  prison. 

"  Well,  I  must  say,"  said  one,  "  this  little  fair  girl 
has  made  us  pass  an  agreeable  moment,  when  we  agreed 
to  make  up  the  basket  of  clothes  for  Mont  Saint-Jean. 
That  will  be  remembered  at  St.  Lazare." 

When  Fleur-de-Marie  had  quitted  the  prison  buildings, 
the  inspectress  said  to  her  : 

"  Now,  my  dear  child,  go  to  the  clothing-room,  and 
leave  your  prison  clothes.  Put  on  your  peasant  girl's 
clothes,  whose  rustic  simplicity  suits  you  so  well. 
Adieu !  You  will  be  happy,  for  you  are  going  to  be 
under  the  protection  of  good  people,  and  leave  these 
walls,  never  again  to  return  to  them.  But  I  am  really 
hardly  reasonable,"  said  Madame  Armand,  whose  eyes 
were  moistened  with  tears.  "  I  really  cannot  conceal 
from  you  how  much  I  am  attached  to  you,  my  poor 
girl !  "  Then,  seeing  the  tears  in  Fleur-de-Marie's  eyes, 
the  inspectress  added,  "  But  we  must  not  sadden  your 
departure  thus." 

"  Ah,  madame,  is  it  not  through  your  recommenda- 
tion that  this  young  lady  to  whom  I  owe  my  liberty  has 
become  interested  in  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  happy  that  I  did  so ;  my  presenti- 
ments had  not  deceived  me." 

At  this  moment  a  clock  struck. 

"  That  is  the  hour  of  work  ;  I  must  return  to  the 
rooms.   Adieu  !    Once  more  adieu,  my  dear  child  ! " 

Madame   Armand,  as  much   affected  as  Fleur-de- 
Marie,  embraced  her  tenderly,  and  then  said  to  one 
of  the  women  employed  in  the  establishment : 
237 


1 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Take  mademoiselle  to  the  vestiary." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards,  Fleur-de-Marie, 
dressed  like  a  peasant  girl,  as  we  have  seen  her  at 
the  farm  at  Bouqueval,  entered  the  waiting-room, 
where  Madame  Seraphin  was  expecting  her.  The 
housekeeper  of  the  notary,  Jacques  Ferrand,  had  come 
to  seek  the  unhappy  girl,  and  conduct  her  to  the  Isle 
du  Ravageur. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


EECOLLECTIONS. 

Jacques  Ferrand  had  quickly  and  readily  obtained 
the  liberty  of  Fleur-de-Marie,  which,  indeed,  only  re- 
quired a  simple  official  order.  Instructed  by  the 
Chouette  of  La  Goualeuse  being  at  St.  Lazare,  he 
had  immediately  applied  to  one  of  his  clients,  an 
honourable  and  influential  man,  saying  that  a  young 
female  who  had  once  erred,  but  afterwards  sincerely 
repented,  being  now  confined  in  St.  Lazare,  was  in 
danger  of  forgetting  her  good  resolutions,  in  conse- 
quence of  her  association  with  the  other  prisoners.  This 
young  girl  having  been  (added  the  notary)  strongly 
recommended  to  him  by  persons  of  high  respectability, 
who  wanted  to  take  care  of  her  when  she  quitted  the 
prison,  he  besought  his  client,  in  the  name  of  religion, 
virtue,  and  the  future  return  to  goodness  of  the  poor 
girl,  to  interest  himself  in  obtaining  her  liberation. 
And,  further  to  screen  himself  from  all  chance  of 
future  consequences,  the  notary  most  earnestly  charged 
his  client  not  to  allow  his  name  to  transpire  in  the  busi- 
ness on  any  account,  as  he  was  desirous  of  avoiding  any 
mention  of  having  been  employed  in  the  furtherance  of 
so  good  and  charitable  a  work. 

This  request,  which  was  attributed  to  the  unassuming 
modesty  and  benevolence  of  Jacques  Ferrand,  a  man 
equally  esteemed  for  his  piety  as  for  honour  and  prob- 
ity, was  strictly  complied  with,  the  liberation  of 
239 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Fleur-de-Marie  being  asked  and  obtained  in  the 
client's  name  alone ;  and  by  way  of  evincing  a  still 
greater  regard  for  the  shrinking  delicacy  of  the  notary's 
nature,  the  order  for  quitting  the  prison  was  sent  under 
cover  to  Jacques  Ferrand,  that  he  might  send  it  on  to 
the  parties  interesting  themselves  for  the  young  girl. 
And  when  Madame  Seraphin  presented  the  order  to  the 
directors  of  the  prison,  she  stated  herself  to  have  been 
sent  by  the  parties  feeling  a  desire  to  save  the  young 
person  it  referred  to. 

From  the  favourable  manner  in  which  the  matron  of 
the  prison  had  spoken  to  Madame  d'Harville  of  Fleur- 
de-Marie,  not  a  doubt  existed  as  to  its  being  to  that 
lady  La  Goualeuse  was  indebted  for  her  return  to 
freedom.  There  was,  therefore,  no  chance  of  the 
appearance  of  Madame  Seraphin  exciting  any  mis- 
trust in  the  mind  of  her  victim.  Madame  Seraphin 
could  so  well  assume  the  look  and  manner  of  what 
is  commonly  styled  "  a  nice  motherly  kind  of  person," 
that  it  required  a  more  than  ordinary  share  of  penetra- 
tion to  discover  a  strong  proportion  of  falsehood,  deceit, 
and  cunning  behind  the  smooth  glance  or  the  hypo- 
critical smile ;  but,  spite  of  the  hardened  villainy  with 
which  she  had  shared  so  long  and  deeply  in  the  nefarious 
practices  of  her  employer,  Madame  SeVaphin,  old  and  hack- 
neyed as  she  was,  could  not  view  without  emotion  the 
exquisite  loveliness  of  the  being  her  own  hand  had  sur- 
rendered, even  as  a  child,  to  the  cruel  care  of  the  Chou- 
ette,  and  whom  she  was  now  leading  to  an  inevitable 
death. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  cried  Madame  Seraphin,  speaking 
in  a  tone  of  honeyed  sweetness,  as  Fleur-de-Marie  drew 
near,  "  I  suppose  you  are  very  glad  to  get  away  from 
prison." 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  ma'am.  I  presume  it  is  Madame 
d'Harville  who  has  had  the  goodness  to  obtain  my 
liberty  for  me?" 

240 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


"  You  are  not  mistaken  in  your  guess.  But,  come,  we 
are  already  a  little  behindhand,  and  we  have  still  some 
distance  to  go." 

"  We  are  going  to  Madame  Georges  at  the  farm  at 
Bouqueval,  are  we  not,  madame  ? "  cried  La  Goualeuse. 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly,  by  all  means!"  answered  the 
femme  de  charge,  in  order  to  avert  all  suspicion  from 
the  mind  of  her  victim.  "  Yes,  my  dear,  we  are  going 
into  the  country,  as  you  say ; "  and  then  added,  with  a 
sort  of  good-humoured  teasing,  "  But  that  is  not  all ; 
before  you  see  Madame  Georges,  a  little  surprise  awaits 
you  —  Come,  come,  our  coach  is  waiting  below  !  Ah, 
how  you  will  be  astonished  by  and  by !  Come,  then,  let 
us  go.    Your  most  obedient  servant,  gentlemen  !  " 

And,  with  a  multitude  of  bows  and  salutations  from 
Madame  Seraphin  to  the  registrar,  his  clerk,  and  all  the 
various  members  of  the  establishment  then  and  there 
assembled,  she  descended  the  stairs  with  La  Goualeuse, 
followed  by  an  officer,  to  command  the  opening  of  the 
gates  through  which  they  had  to  pass.  The  last  had 
just  closed  behind  them,  and  the  two  females  found 
themselves  beneath  the  vast  porch  which  looks  out  upon 
the  street  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Denis,  when  they  nearly 
ran  against  a  young  female,  who  appeared  hurrying 
towards  the  prison,  as  though  full  of  anxiety  to  visit 
one  of  its  inmates.  It  was  Rigolette,  as  pretty  and 
light-footed  as  ever,  her  charming  face  set  off  by  a 
simple  yet  becoming  cap,  tastefully  ornamented  with 
cherry-coloured  riband ;  while  her  dark  brown  hair 
was  laid  in  bright  glossy  bands  down  each  clear  and 
finely  rounded  cheek.  She  was  wrapped  in  a  plaid 
shawl,  over  which  fell  a  snowy  muslin  collar,  secured 
by  a  small  knot  of  riband.  On  her  arm  she  carried 
a  straw  basket ;  while,  thanks  to  her  light,  careful  way 
of  picking  her  steps,  her  thick-soled  boots  were  scarcely 
soiled ;  and  yet  the  poor  girl  had  walked  far  that 
day. 

241 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Rigolette  !  "  exclaimed  Fleur-de-Marie,  as  she  recog- 
nised her  old  prison  companion,  and  the  sharer  in  her 
rural  excursions.1 

"  La  Goualeuse !  "  returned  the  grisette,  and  with  one 
accord  the  two  girls  threw  themselves  into  each  other's 
arms. 

Nothing  more  touchingly  beautiful  could  be  imagined 
than  the  contrast  between  these  two  young  creatures, 
both  so  lovely,  though  differing  so  entirely  from  one 
another  in  appearance  :  the  one  exquisitely  fair,  with 
large,  melancholy  blue  eyes,  and  an  outline  of  feature 
of  faultless  purity,  the  pale,  pensive,  intellectual  cast 
of  the  whole  countenance  reminding  the  observer  of 
one  of  those  sweet  designs  of  a  village  maid  by 
Greuze, —  the  same  clear  delicacy  of  complexion,  the 
same  ineffable  mixture  of  graceful  pensiveness  and 
candid  innocence ;  the  other  a  sparkling  brunette, 
with  round  rosy  cheek  and  bright  black  eyes,  set  off  by 
a  laughing,  dimpled  face  and  mirthful  air,  —  the  very 
impersonation  of  youthful  gaiety  and  light-heartedness, 
the  rare  and  touching  specimen  of  happy  poverty, 
of  contented  labour,  and  honest  industry  ! 

After  the  first  burst  of  their  affectionate  greetings  had 
passed  away,  the  two  girls  regarded  each  other  with  close 
and  tender  scrutiny.  The  features  of  Rigolette  were  radi- 
ant with  the  joy  she  experienced  at  this  unexpected  meet- 
ing ;  Fleur-de-Marie,  on  the  contrary,  felt  humbled  and 
confused  at  the  sight  of  her  early  friend,  which  re- 
called but  too  vividly  to  her  mind  the  few  days  of 
peaceful  calm  she  had  known  previous  to  her  first 
degradation. 

"  Dear,  dear  Goualeuse ! "  exclaimed  the  grisette, 
fixing  her  bright  eyes  with  intense  delight  on  her 

1  The  reader  will,  perhaps,  recollect  that  in  the  recital  made  by  La  Goua- 
leuse to  Rodolph,  at  their  first  meeting  at  the  ogress's,  of  the  early  events 
of  her  life,  she  spoke  to  him  of  Rigolette,  who,  a  friendless  child  like  herself, 
had  been  (with  her)  confined  in  a  maison  de  detention  until  she  had  reached  the 
age  of  sixteen. 

242 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


companion.  "  To  think  of  meeting  you  at  last,  after  so 
long  an  absence  !  " 

"  It  is,  indeed,  a  delightful  surprise  !  "  replied  Fleur- 
de-Marie.  "  It  is  so  very  long  since  we  have  seen  each 
other." 

"Ah,  but  now,"  said  Rigolette,  for  the  first  time 
remarking  the  rustic  habiliments  of  La  Goualeuse,  "  I 
can  account  for  seeing  nothing  of  you  during  the  last 
six  months,  —  you  live  in  the  country,  I  see  ? " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Fleur-de-Marie,  casting  down  her 
eyes,  "I  have  done  so  for  some  time  past." 

"  And  I  suppose  that,  like  me,  you  have  come  to  see 
some  friend  in  this  prison  ? " 

"Yes,"  stammered  poor  Fleur-de-Marie,  blushing  up 
to  her  eyes  with  shame  and  confusion  ;  "  I  was  going  — 
I  mean  I  have  just  been  seeing  some  one,  and,  of  course, 
am  now  returning  home." 

"  You  live  a  good  way  out  of  Paris,  I  dare  say  ?  Ah, 
you  dear,  kind  girl !  It  is  just  like  you  to  come  all  this 
distance  to  perform  a  good  action.  Do  you  remember 
the  poor  lying-in  woman  to  whom  you  gave,  not  only 
your  mattress,  with  the  necessary  baby-clothes,  but  even 
what  money  you  had  left,  and  which  we  meant  to  have 
spent  in  a  country  excursion  ;  for  you  were  then  crazy 
for  the  country,  my  pretty  village  maid  ?  " 

"  And  you,  who  cared  nothing  about  it,  how  very  good- 
natured  and  obliging  of  you  to  go  thither,  merely  for  the 
sake  of  pleasing  me!" 

"  Well,  but  I  pleased  myself  at  the  same  time.  Why, 
you,  who  were  always  inclined  to  be  grave  and  serious, 
when  once  you  got  among  the  fields,  or  found  yourself 
in  the  thick  shade  of  a  wood,  oh,  then,  what  a  wild, 
overjoyed  little  madcap  you  became  !  Nobody  would 
have  fancied  it  the  same  person,  —  flying  after  the 
butterflies,  —  crowding  your  hands  and  apron  with 
more  flowers  than  either  could  hold.  It  made  me 
quite  delighted  to  see  you !  It  was  quite  treat 
243 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


enough  for  a  week  to  recollect  all  your  happiness  and 
enjoyment.  But  do  let  me  have  another  look  at  you : 
how  sweetly  pretty  you  look  in  that  nice  little  round 
cap !  Yes,  decidedly,  you  were  cut  out  to  be 
a  country  girl,  —  just  as  much  as  I  was  to  be  a  Paris 
grisette.  Well,  I  hope  you  are  happy,  since  you  have 
got  the  sort  of  line  you  prefer  ;  and,  certainly,  after  all, 
I  cannot  say  I  was  so  very  much  astonished  at  your 
never  coming  near  me.  '  Oh,'  said  I, '  that  dear  Goua- 
leuse  is  not  suited  for  Paris ;  she  is  a  true  wild  flower, 
as  the  song  says ;  and  the  air  of  great  cities  is  not 
for  them.  So,'  said  I,  '  my  pretty,  dear  Goualeuse  has 
found  a  place  in  some  good  honest  family  who  live  in 
the  country.'    And  I  was  right,  was  I  not,  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  nearly  sinking  with  con- 
fusion, "  quite  right." 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  I  have  to  reproach  you  for." 

"  Reproach  me  ? "  inquired  Fleur-de-Marie,  looking 
tearfully  at  her  companion. 

"  Yes,  you  ought  to  have  let  me  know  before  you 
went.  You  should  have  said  '  good-bye,'  if  you  were 
only  leaving  me  at  night  to  return  in  the  morning ;  or, 
at  any  rate,  you  should  have  sent  me  word  how  you 
were  going  on." 

"I  —  I  —  quitted  Paris  so  suddenly,"  stammered  out 
Fleur-de-Marie,  becoming  momentarily  more  and  more 
embarrassed,  "  that,  indeed  —  I  —  was  not  able  —  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  at  all  angry !  I  don't  speak  of  it  to 
scold  you  !  I  am  far  too  happy  in  meeting  you  unex- 
pectedly ;  and,  besides,  I  commend  you  for  getting  out 
of  such  a  dangerous  place  as  Paris,  where  it  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  earn  a  quiet  livelihood  ;  for,  you  know,  two  poor 
friendless  girls  like  you  and  me  might  be  led  into 
mischief,  without  thinking  of,  or  intending,  any  harm. 
When  there  is  no  person  to  advise,  it  leaves  one  so 
very  defenceless ;  and  then  come  a  parcel  of  deceitful, 
flattering  men,  with  their  false  promises,  when,  perhaps, 

244: 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


want  and  misery  are  staring  you  in  the  face.  There, 
for  instance,  do  you  recollect  that  pretty  girl  called 
Julie?  —  and  Rosine,  who  had  such  a  beautiful  fair 
skin,  and  such  coal  black  eyes  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  recollect  them  very  well !  " 

"  Then,  my  dear  Goualeuse,  you  will  be  extremely 
sorry  to  hear  that  they  were  both  led  astray,  seduced, 
and  deserted,  till  at  last,  from  one  unfortunate  step  to 
another,  they  have  become  like  the  miserable  creatures 
confined  in  this  prison  !  " 

"  Merciful  Heaven  !  "  exclaimed  Fleur-de-Marie,  hang- 
ing down  her  head,  and  blushing  the  deep  blush  of  shame. 

Rigolette,  misinterpreting  the  real  cause  of  her  friend's 
exclamation,  continued : 

"  I  admit  that  their  conduct  is  wrong,  nay  wicked ; 
but  then,  you  know,  my  dear  Goualeuse,  because  you 
and  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  preserve  ourselves 
from  harm,  —  you,  because  you  have  been  living  with 
good  and  virtuous  people  in  the  country,  out  of  the 
reach  of  temptation ;  and  I,  because  I  had  no  time  to 
waste  in  listening  to  a  set  of  make-believe  lovers ;  and 
also  because  I  found  greater  pleasure  in  having  a  few 
birds,  and  in  trying  to  get  things  a  little  comfortable 
and  snug  around  me,  —  I  say,  it  is  not  for  you  and  me 
to  be  too  severe  with  others ;  and  God  alone  knows 
whether  opportunity,  deceit,  and  destitution  may  not 
have  had  much  to  do  in  causing  the  misery  and  disgrace 
of  Julie  and  Rosine !  And  who  can  say  whether,  in 
their  place,  we  might  not  have  acted  as  they  have  done  ?  " 

"  Alas  ! "  cried  Fleur-de-Marie,  "  I  accuse  them  not ; 
on  the  contrary,  I  pity  them  from  my  heart ! " 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear  child  !  "  interrupted  Madame 
S6raphin,  impatiently  offering  her  arm  to  her  victim, 
"  you  forget  that  I  said  we  were  already  behind  our  time." 

"Pray,  madame,  grant  us  a  little  more  time,"  said 
Rigolette.  "  It  is  so  very  long  since  I  saw  my  dear 
Goualeuse  ! " 

245 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  should  be  glad  to  do  so,"  replied  Madame  Se'raphin, 
much  annoyed  at  this  meeting  between  the  two  friends  ; 
"  but  it  is  now  three  o'clock,  and  we  have  a  long  way  to 
go.  However,  I  will  manage  to  allow  you  ten  minutes 
longer  gossip.    So  pray  make  the  best  of  your  time." 

"  And  tell  me,  I  pray,  of  yourself,"  said  Fleur-de- 
Marie,  affectionately  pressing  the  hands  of  Rigolette 
between  her  own.  "  Are  you  still  the  same  merry, 
light-hearted,  and  happy  creature  I  always  knew 
you?" 

"  I  was  happy  and  gay  enough  a  few  days  ago ;  but 
now  —  " 

"  You  sorrowful  ?    I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"  Ah,  but  indeed  I  am !  Not  that  I  am  at  all 
changed  from  what  you  always  found  me,  —  a  regular 
Roger  Bontemps,  —  one  to  whom  nothing  was  a  trouble. 
But  then,  you  see,  everybody  is  not  like  me  ;  so  that, 
when  I  see  those  I  love  unhappy,  why,  naturally,  that 
makes  me  unhappy,  too." 

"  Still  the  same  kind,  warm-hearted  girl !  " 

«  Why,  who  could  help  being  grieved  as  I  am  ?  Just 
imagine  my  having  come  hither  to  visit  a  poor  young 
creature,  —  a  sort  of  neighbouring  lodger  in  the  house 
where  I  live,  —  as  meek  and  mild  as  a  lamb  she  was, 
poor  thing !  Well,  she  has  been  most  shamefully  and 
unjustly  accused, — that  she  has;  never  mind  of  what 
just  now !  Her  name  is  Louise  Morel.  She  is  the 
daughter  of  an  honest  and  deserving  man,  a  lapidary, 
who  has  gone  mad  in  consequence  of  her  being  put  in 
prison." 

At  the  name  of  Louise  Morel,  one  of  the  victims  of 
the  notary's  villainy,  Madame  Seraphin  started,  and 
gazed  earnestly  at  Rigolette.  The  features  of  the  gri- 
sette  were,  however,  perfectly  unknown  to  her  ;  neverthe- 
less, from  that  instant,  the  femme  de  charge  listened  with 
an  attentive  ear  to  the  conversation  of  the  two  girls. 

"  Poor  thing,"  continued  the  Groualeuse  ;  "  how  happy 
246 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


it  must  make  her  to  find  that  you  have  not  forgotten 
her  in  her  misfortunes  !  " 

"  And  that  is  not  all ;  it  really  seems  as  though  some 
spell  hung  over  me  !  But,  truly  and  positively,  this  is 
the  second  poor  prisoner  I  have  left  my  home  to-day  to 
visit !  I  have  come  a  long  way,  and  also  from  a  prison, 
—  but  that  was  a  place  of  confinement  for  men." 

"  You,  Rigolette,  —  in  a  prison  for  men  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have,  indeed.  I  have  a  very  dejected  cus- 
tomer there,  I  can  assure  you.  There,  —  you  see  my 
basket ;  it  is  divided  in  two  parts,  and  each  of  my  poor 
friends  has  an  equal  share  in  its  contents.  I  have  got 
some  clean  things  here  for  poor  Louise,  and  I  have  left 
a  similar  packet  with  Germain,  —  that  is  the  name  of 
my  other  poor  captive.  I  cannot  help  feeling  ready  to 
cry  when  I  think  of  our  last  interview.  I  know  it  will 
do  no  good,  but  still,  for  all  that,  the  tears  will  come 
into  my  eyes." 

"  But  what  is  it  that  distresses  you  so  much  ?  " 

"  Why,  because,  you  see,  poor  Germain  frets  so  much 
at  being  mixed  up  in  his  prison  with  the  many  bad  char- 
acters that  are  there,  that  it  has  quite  broken  his  spirits ; 
he  seems  to  have  no  taste,  no  relish  for  anything,  has 
quite  lost  his  appetite,  and  is  wasting  away  daily.  So, 
when  I  perceived  the  change,  I  said  to  myself :  6  Oh, 
poor  fellow,  I  see  he  eats  nothing.  I  must  make  him 
something  nice  and  delicate  to  tempt  his  appetite  a 
little ;  he  shall  have  one  of  those  little  dainties  he  used 
to  be  so  fond  of  when  he  and  I  were  next-room  neigh- 
bours.' When  I  say  dainties,  of  course  I  don't  mean 
such  as  rich  people  expect  by  that  name.  No,  no,  my 
dish  was  merely  some  beautiful  mealy  potatoes,  mashed 
with  a  little  milk  and  sugar.  Well,  my  dear  Goualeuse, 
I  prepared  this  for  him,  put  it  in  a  nice  little  china  basin 
and  took  it  to  him  in  his  prison,  telling  him  I  had 
brought  him  a  little  titbit  he  used  once  to  be  fond  of, 
and  which  I  hoped  he  would  like  as  well  as  in  former 
247 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


days.    I  told  him  I  had  prepared  it  entirely  myself, 
hoping  to  make  him  relish  it.    But  alas,  no !    What  do 
you  think  ?  " 
«  Oh,  what?" 

"  Why,  instead  of  increasing  his  appetite,  I  only  set 
him  crying ;  for,  when  I  displayed  my  poor  attempts  at 
cookery,  he  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  anything  but  the 
basin,  out  of  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  see  me 
take  my  milk  when  we  supped  together;  and  then  he 
burst  into  tears,  and,  by  way  of  making  matters  still 
better,  I  began  to  cry,  too,  although  I  tried  all  I  could 
to  restrain  myself.  You  see  how  everything  went 
against  me.  I  had  gone  with  the  intention  of  enliv- 
ening his  spirits,  and,  instead  of  that,  there  I  was 
making  him  more  melancholy  than  ever." 

"  Still,  the  tears  he  shed  were,  no  doubt,  sweet  and 
consoling  tears ! " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  what  sort  of  tears  they  were,  that 
was  not  the  way  I  meant  to  have  consoled  him.  But  la ! 
All  this  while  I  am  talking  to  you  of  Germain  as  if  you 
knew  him.  He  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  one  of 
the  best  young  men  in  the  world,  as  timid  and  gentle  as 
any  young  girl  could  be,  and  whom  I  loved  as  a  friend 
and  a  brother." 

"  Oh,  then,  of  course,  his  troubles  became  yours 
also." 

"  To  be  sure.  But  just  let  me  show  you  what  a  good 
heart  he  must  have.  When  I  was  coining  away,  I  asked 
him  as  usual  what  orders  he  had  for  me,  saying  jokingly, 
by  way  of  making  him  smile,  that  I  was  his  little  house- 
keeper, and  that  I  should  be  very  punctual  and  exact  in 
fulfilling  whatever  commissions  he  gave  me,  in  order  to 
remain  in  his  employ.  So  then  he,  trying  to  smile  in 
his  turn,  asked  me  to  bring  him  one  of  Walter  Scott's 
romances,  which  he  had  formerly  read  to  me  while  I 
worked,  —  that  romance  was  called  '  Ivan — '  '  Ivanhoe,' 
that's  it.  I  was  so  much  amused  with  this  book  that 
248 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


Germain  read  it  twice  over  to  me.  Poor  Germain! 
How  very,  very  kind  and  attentive  he  was ! " 

"  I  suppose  he  wished  to  keep  it  as  a  reminiscence  of 
bygone  days  ? " 

"No  doubt  of  it;  for  he  bade  me  go  to  the  library 
from  whence  we  had  had  it,  and  to  purchase  the  very 
same  volumes  that  had  so  much  entertained  us,  and 
which  we  had  read  together,  —  not  merely  to  hire  them, 

—  yes,  positively  to  buy  them  out  and  out;  and  you 
may  imagine  that  was  something  of  a  sacrifice  for  him, 
for  he  is  no  richer  than  you  or  I." 

"  He  must  have  a  noble  and  excellent  heart  to  have 
thought  of  it,"  said  the  Goualeuse,  deeply  touched. 

"  I  declare  you  are  as  much  affected  by  it  as  I  was,  my 
dear,  kind  Goualeuse!  But  then,  you  see,  the  more  I 
felt  ready  to  cry,  the  more  I  tried  to  laugh ;  for,  to  shed 
tears  twice  during  a  visit,  intended  to  be  so  very  cheer- 
ing and  enlivening  as  mine  was,  was  rather  too  bad.  So, 
to  drive  all  those  thoughts  out  of  my  head,  I  began  to 
remind  him  of  the  amusing  story  of  a  Jew,  —  a  person 
we  read  about  in  the  romance  I  was  telling  you  of.  But 
the  more  I  rattled  away,  and  the  greater  nonsense  I 
tried  to  talk,  the  faster  the  large  round  tears  gathered 
in  his  eyes,  and  he  kept  looking  at  me  with  such  an 
expression  of  misery  as  quite  broke  my  heart.    And  so 

—  and  so  —  at  last  my  voice  quite  failed  me,  and  I  could 
do  nothing  but  mingle  my  sobs  with  his.  He  had  not 
regained  his  composure  when  I  left  him,  and  I  felt  quite 
provoked  with  myself  for  my  folly.  6  If  that  is  the  way,' 
said  I,  4  that  I  comfort  and  cheer  up  poor  Germain,  I 
think  I  had  better  stay  away ! '  Really,  when  I  remem- 
ber all  the  fine  things  I  intended  to  have  said  and  done, 
by  way  of  keeping  up  his  spirits,  I  feel  quite  spiteful 
towards  myself  for  having  so  completely  failed." 

At  the  name  of  Germain,  another  victim  of  the 
notary's  unprincipled  persecution,  Madame  S^raphin 
redoubled  her  before  close  attention. 

249 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  And  what  has  this  poor  young  man  done  to  deserve 
being  put  in  prison  ? "  inquired  Meur-de-Marie. 

"  What  has  he  done  ? "  exclaimed  Rigolette,  whose 
grief  became  swallowed  up  in  indignation  ;  "  why,  he  has 
had  the  misfortune  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  wicked  old 
notary,  —  the  same  as  persecutes  poor  Louise." 

"  Of  her  whom  you  have  come  to  see  ? " 

"  To  be  sure ;  she  lived  as  servant  with  this  notary, 
and  Germain  was  also  with  him  as  cashier.  It  is  too 
long  a  story  to  tell  you  now,  how  or  of  what  he  unjustly 
accuses  the  poor  fellow ;  but  one  thing  is  quite  certain, 
and  that  is,  that  the  wretch  of  a  notary  pursues  these 
two  unfortunate  beings,  who  have  never  done  him  the 
least  harm,  with  the  most  determined  malice  and  hatred. 
However,  never  mind,  —  a  little  patience,  4  every  one  in 
their  turn,'  —  that's  all."  Rigolette  uttered  these  last 
words  with  a  peculiarity  of  manner  and  expression  that 
created  considerable  uneasiness  in  the  mind  of  Madame 
Se'raphin.  Instead,  therefore,  of  preserving  the  distance 
she  had  hitherto  observed,  she  at  once  joined  in  the  con- 
versation, saying  to  Fleur-de-Marie,  with  a  kind  and 
maternal  air: 

"  My  dear  girl,  it  is  really  growing  too  late  for  us  to 
wait  any  longer,  —  we  must  go ;  we  are  waited  for,  I 
assure  you,  with  much  anxiety.  I  am  sorry  to  hurry 
you  away,  because  I  can  well  imagine  how  much  you 
must  be  interested  in  what  your  friend  is  relating ;  for 
even  I,  who  know  nothing  of  the  two  young  persons  she 
refers  to,  cannot  help  feeling  my  very  heart  ache  for 
their  undeserved  sufferings.  Is  it  possible  there  can  be 
people  in  the  world  as  wicked  as  the  notary  you  were 
mentioning  ?  Pray,  my  dear  mademoiselle,  what  may 
be  the  name  of  this  bad  man,  —  if  I  may  make  so  bold 
as  to  ask  ?" 

Although  Rigolette  entertained  not  the  slightest  sus- 
picion of  the  sincerity  of  Madame  Se"raphin's  affected 
sympathy,  yet,  recollecting  how  strictly  Rodolph  had 
250 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


enjoined  her  to  observe  the  utmost  secrecy  respecting 
the  protection  he  bestowed  on  both  Germain  and  Louise, 
she  regretted  having  been  led  away  by  her  affectionate 
zeal  for  her  friends  to  use  such  words,  — "  Patience ; 
every  one  has  his  turn ! " 

"  His  name,  madame,  is  Ferrand,  —  M.  Jacques  Fer- 
rand,  Notary,"  replied  Rigolette,  skilfully  adding,  by  way 
of  compensation  for  her  indiscreet  warmth,  "  and  it  is 
the  more  wicked  and  shameful  of  him  to  torment  Louise 
and  Germain  as  he  does,  because  the  poor  things  have 
not  a  friend  upon  earth  but  myself,  and,  God  knows, 
it  is  little  I  can  do  besides  wishing  them  well  out  of 
their  troubles ! " 

"  Dear  me,  —  poor  things  !  "  observed  Madame  Se"ra- 
phin.  "  Well,  Fm  sure  I  hoped  it  was  otherwise  when  I 
heard  you  say,  '  Patience ;  every  one  has  their  turn ! ' 
I  supposed  you  reckoned  for  certain  upon  some  powerful 
protector  to  defend  these  people  against  that  dreadful 
notary." 

"  Alas,  no,  madame  !  "  answered  Pvigolette,  hoping  to 
destroy  any  suspicion  Madame  Seraphin  might  still  har- 
bour ;  "  such,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  not  the  case.  For 
who  would  be  generous  and  disinterested  enough  to  take 
the  part  of  two  poor  creatures  like  my  unfortunate  friends 
against  a  rich  and  powerful  man  like  M.  Ferrand  ? " 

"  Oh,  there  are  many  good  and  noble-minded  persons 
capable  of  performing  so  good  an  action,"  pursued  Fleur- 
de-Marie,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  and  with  ill- 
restrained  excitement ;  "  I  myself  know  one  to  whom  it 
is  equally  a  duty  and  a  pleasure  to  succour  and  assist  all 
who  are  in  need  or  difficulty,  —  one  who  is  beloved  and 
valued  by  all  good  persons,  as  he  is  dreaded  and  hated 
by  the  bad." 

Rigolette  gazed  on  the  Goualeuse  with  deep  astonish- 
ment, and  was  just  on  the  point  of  asserting  that  she, 
too  (alluding  to  Rodolph),  knew  some  one  capable  of 
courageously  espousing  the  cause  of  the  weak  against 
251 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PAEIS. 


the  strong;  but,  faithful  to  the  injunctions  of  her 
neighbour  (as  she  styled  the  prince),  she  contented 
herself  with  merely  saying,  "  Really,  do  you  indeed 
know  anybody  capable  of  generously  coming  forward 
in  defence  of  poor  oppressed  individuals,  such  as  we 
have  been  talking  of  ? " 

"Indeed,  I  do.  And,  although  I  have  already  to 
solicit  his  goodness  in  favour  of  others  also  in  severe 
trouble,  yet,  I  am  quite  sure  that,  did  he  but  know  of 
the  undeserved  misfortunes  of  Louise  and  Germain,  he 
would  both  rescue  them  from  misery  and  punish  their 
wicked  persecutor;  for  his  goodness  and  justice  are 
inexhaustible." 

Madame  Se'raphin  surveyed  her  victim  with  surprise. 
"  This  girl,"  said  she,  mentally,  "  might  be  even  more 
dangerous  than  we  thought  for.  And,  even  if  I  had 
been  weak  enough  to  feel  inclined  to  pity  her,  what  I 
have  just  heard  would  have  rendered  the  little  1  accident,' 
which  is  to  rid  us  of  her,  quite  inevitable." 

"  Then,  dear  Goualeuse,  since  you  have  so  valuable  an 
acquaintance,  I  beseech  of  you  to  recommend  poor  Louise 
and  Germain  to  his  notice,"  said  Rigolette,  wisely  con- 
sidering that  her  two  prote*ge*es  would  be  all  the  better 
for  obtaining  two  protectors  instead  of  one.  "  And  pray 
say  that  they  do  not  in  the  least  deserve  their  present 
wretched  fate." 

"Make  yourself  perfectly  easy,"  returned  Fleur-de- 
Marie ;  "  I  promise  to  try  to  interest  M.  Rodolph  in 
favour  of  your  poor  friends." 

"  Who  did  you  say  ?  "  exclaimed  Rigolette,  "  M.  Ro- 
dolph?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  La  Goualeuse  ;  "  do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"M.  Rodolph?"  again  repeated  Rigolette,  perfectly 
bewildered ;  "  is  he  a  travelling  clerk  ?  " 

"  I  really  don't  know  what  he  is.  But  why  are  you 
so  much  astonished  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know  a  M.  Rodolph ! " 

252 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


"  Perhaps  it  is  not  the  same." 

"  Well,  describe  yours.    What  is  he  like  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  he  is  young." 

"  So  is  mine." 

"  With  a  countenance  full  of  nobleness  and  goodness." 

"  Precisely,"  exclaimed  Rigolette,  whose  amazement 
increased.  "  Oh,  it  must  be  the  very  man !  Is  your  M. 
Eodolph  rather  dark-complexioned,  with  a  small  mous- 
tache ? " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  Is  he  tall  and  thin,  with  a  beautiful  figure,  and  quite 
a  fashionable,  gentlemanly  sort  of  air,  —  wonderfully  so, 
considering  he  is  but  a  clerk  ?  Now,  then,  does  your  M. 
Rodolph  answer  to  that  description  ? " 

"  Perfectly,"  answered  Fleur-de-Marie  ;  "  and  I  feel 
quite  sure  that  we  both  mean  the  same.  The  only  thing 
that  puzzles  me  is  your  fancying  he  is  a  clerk." 

"  Oh,  but  I  know  he  is.    He  told  me  so  himself." 

"  And  you  know  him  intimately  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  is  my  next-door  neighbour." 

«  M.  Rodolph  is  ? " 

"  I  mean  next-room  neighbour ;  because  he  occupies 
an  apartment  on  the  fourth  floor,  next  to  mine." 

"  He  —  M.  Rodolph  —  lodges  in  the  next  room  to 
you?" 

"  Why,  yes.  But  what  do  you  find  so  astonishing  in 
a  thing  as  simple  as  that  ?  He  only  earns  about  fifteen 
or  eighteen  hundred  francs  a  year,  and,  of  course,  he 
could  not  afford  a  more  expensive  lodging,  —  though, 
certainly,  he  does  not  strike  me  as  being  a  very  careful 
or  economical  person ;  for,  bless  his  dear  heart,  he  ac- 
tually does  not  know  the  price  of  the  clothes  he  wears." 

"No,  no,  it  cannot  be  the  same  M.  Rodolph  I  am 
acquainted  with,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  reflecting  seri- 
ously ;  "  oh,  no,  quite  impossible ! " 

"  I  suppose  yours  is  a  pattern  of  order  and  exact- 
ness ?  " 

253 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  He  of  whom  I  spoke,  I  must  tell  you,  Rigolette," 
said  Fleur-de-Marie,  with  enthusiasm,  "  is  all-powerful ; 
his  name  is  never  pronounced  but  with  love  and  venera- 
tion ;  there  is  something  awe-inspiring  in  his  very  aspect, 
giving  one  the  desire  to  kneel  in  his  presence  and  offer 
humble  respect  to  his  goodness  and  greatness." 

"  Ah,  then,  it  is  no  use  trying  the  comparison  any  fur- 
ther, my  dear  Goualeuse  ;  for  my  M.  Rodolph  is  neither 
powerful,  great,  nor  imposing.  He  is  very  good-natured 
and  merry,  and  all  that ;  but  oh,  bless  you,  as  for  being 
a  person  one  would  be  likely  to  go  on  one's  knees  to,  why, 
he  is  quite  the  reverse.  He  cares  no  more  for  cere- 
mony than  I  do,  and  even  promised  me  to  come  and  help 
me  clean  my  apartment  and  polish  the  floor.  And  then, 
instead  of  being  awe-inspiring,  he  settled  with  me  to 
take  me  out  of  a  Sunday  anywhere  I  liked  to  go.  So 
that,  you  see,  he  can't  be  a  very  great  person.  But, 
bless  you,  what  am  I  thinking  of  ?  It  seems  as  if  my 
heart  were  wholly  engrossed  by  my  Sunday  pleasures, 
instead  of  recollecting  these  poor  creatures  shut  up  and 
deprived  of  their  liberty  in  a  prison.  Ah,  poor  dear 
Louise  —  and  poor  Germain,  too  !  Until  they  are  re- 
stored to  freedom  there  is  no  happiness  for  me ! " 

For  several  minutes  Fleur-de-Marie  remained  plunged 
in  a  deep  reverie  ;  she  all  at  once  recalled  to  her  remem- 
brance that,  at  her  first  interview  with  Rodolph,  at  the 
house  of  the  ogress,  his  language  and  manners  resembled 
those  of  the  usual  frequenters  of  the  tapis-franc.  Was 
it  not,  then,  possible  that  he  might  be  playing  the  part 
of  the  travelling  clerk,  for  the  sake  of  some  scheme  he 
had  in  view  ?  The  difficulty  consisted  in  finding  any 
probable  cause  for  such  a  transformation.  The  grisette, 
who  quickly  perceived  the  thoughtful  meditation  in  which 
Fleur-de-Marie  was  lost,  said,  kindly : 

"  Never  mind  puzzling  your  poor  brains  on  the  subject, 
my  dear  Goualeuse ;  we  shall  soon  find  out  whether  we 
both  know  the  same  M.  Rodolph.  When  you  see  yours, 
254 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


speak  of  me  to  him ;  when  I  see  mine,  I  will  mention 
you ;  by  these  means  we  shall  easily  discover  what  con- 
clusion to  come  to." 

"  Where  do  you  live,  Rigolette  ?  " 

«  No.  17  Rue  du  Temple." 

"  Come ! "  said  Madame  Se'raphin  (who  had  atten- 
tively listened  to  all  this  conversation)  to  herself,  "  that 
is  not  a  bad  thing  to  know.  This  all-powerful  and  mys- 
terious personage,  M.  Rodolph,  who  is,  no  doubt,  passing 
himself  off  for  a  travelling  clerk,  occupies  an  apartment 
adjoining  that  of  this  young  mantua-maker,  who  appears 
to  me  to  know  much  more  than  she  chooses  to  own  to ; 
and  this  defender  of  the  oppressed,  it  seems,  is  lodging 
in  the  same  house  with  Morel  and  Bradamanti.  "Well, 
well,  if  the  grisette  and  the  travelling  clerk  continue  to 
meddle  with  what  does  not  concern  them,  I  shall  know 
where  to  lay  my  hand  upon  them." 

"  As  soon  as  ever  I  have  spoken  with  M.  Rodolph," 
said  the  Goualeuse,  "  I  will  write  to  you,  and  give  you 
my  address  where  to  send  your  answer  ;  but  tell  me 
yours  over  again,  I  am  afraid  of  forgetting  it." 

"  Oh,  dear,  how  fortunate !  I  declare  I  have  got  one 
of  my  cards  with  me  !  I  remember  a  person  I  work  for 
asked  me  to  leave  her  one,  to  give  a  friend  who  wished 
to  employ  me.  So  I  brought  it  out  for  that  purpose ; 
but  I  will  give  it  to  you,  and  carry  her  one  another 
time."  And  here  Rigolette  handed  to  Fleur-de-Marie 
a  small  card,  on  which  was  written,  in  beautiful  text- 
hand,  "  Mademoiselle  Rigolette,  Dressmaker,  17  Rue  du 
Temple."  "  There's  a  beauty  !  "  continued  the  grisette. 
"  Oh,  isn't  it  nicely  done  ?  Better,  a  good  deal,  than 
printing !  Ah,  poor  dear  Germain  wrote  me  a  number 
of  cards  long  ago !  Oh,  he  was  so  kind,  so  attentive ! 
I  don't  know  how  it  could  have  happened  that  I  never 
found  out  half  his  good  qualities  till  he  became  unfor- 
tunate ;  and  now  I  continually  reproach  myself  with 
having  learned  to  love  him  so  late." 

255 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  You  love  Germain,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  I  do !  Why,  you  know,  I  must  have 
some  pretext  for  visiting  him  in  prison.  Am  I  not  an 
odd  sort  of  girl  ?  "  said  Rigolette,  choking  a  rising  sigh, 
and  smiling,  like  an  April  shower,  amid  the  tears  which 
glittered  in  her  large  dark  eyes. 

"  You  are  good  and  generous-hearted,  as  you  ever 
were  !  "  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  tenderly  pressing  her  friend's 
hands  within  her  own. 

Madame  Seraphin  had  evidently  learned  all  she  cared 
to  know,  and  feeling  very  little  interest  in  any  further 
disclosure  of  Rigolette's  love  for  young  Germain,  hastily 
approaching  Fleur-de-Marie,  she  abruptly  said  : 

"  Come,  my  dear  child,  do  not  keep  me  waiting  an- 
other minute,  I  beg ;  it  is  very  late,  and  I  shall  be 
scolded,  as  it  is,  for  being  so  much  behind  my  time ;  we 
have  trifled  away  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  must 
endeavour  to  make  up  for  it." 

"  What  a  nasty  cross  old  body  that  is  !  "  said  Rigolette, 
in  a  whisper,  to  Fleur-de-Marie.  "  I  don't  like  the  looks 
of  her  at  all !  "  Then,  speaking  in  a  louder  voice,  she 
added,  "  Whenever  you  come  to  Paris,  my  dear  Goualeuse, 
be  sure  to  come  and  see  me.  I  should  be  so  delighted  to 
have  you  all  to  myself  for  a  whole  day,  to  show  you  my 
little  home  and  my  birds ;  for  I  have  got  some,  such 
sweet  pretty  ones  !  Oh,  that  is  my  chief  indulgence  and 
expense ! " 

"  I  will  try  to  come  and  see  you,  but  certainly  I  will 
write  you.  So  good-bye,  my  dear,  dear  Rigolette !  Adieu  ! 
Oh,  if  you  only  knew  how  happy  I  feel  at  having  met 
with  you  again  !  " 

"  And,  I  am  sure,  so  do  I ;  but  I  trust  we  shall  soon 
see  each  other  again ;  and,  besides,  I  am  so  impatient  to 
know  whether  your  M.  Rodolph  is  the  same  as  mine. 
Pray  write  to  me  very  soon  upon  this  subject,  will  you  ? 
Promise  you  will ! " 

"  Indeed  I  will !    Adieu,  dear  Rigolette  !  " 

256 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


"  Farewell,  my  very  dear  Goualeuse  ! " 

And  again  the  two  poor  girls,  each  striving  to  conceal 
their  distress  at  parting,  indulged  in  a  long  and  affection- 
ate embrace.  Rigolette  then  turned  away,  to  enter  the 
prison  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  Louise,  according  to 
the  kind  permission  obtained  for  her  by  Rodolph,  while 
Fleur-de-Marie,  with  Madame  Sdraphin,  got  into  the 
coach  which  was  waiting  for  them.  The  coachman  was 
instructed  to  proceed  to  Batignolles,  and  to  stop  at  the 
barrier.  A  cross-road  of  inconsiderable  length  conducted 
from  this  spot  almost  directly  to  the  borders  of  the  Seine, 
not  far  from  the  Isle  du  Ravageur.  Wholly  unacquainted 
with  the  locality  of  Paris,  Fleur-de-Marie  was  unable  to 
detect  that  the  vehicle  did  not  take  the  road  to  the  Bar- 
rier St.  Denis ;  it  was  only  when  the  coach  stopped  at 
Batignolles,  and  she  was  requested  by  Madame  Seraphin 
to  alight,  that  she  said  : 

"  It  seems  to  me,  madame,  that  we  are  not  in  the 
road  to  Bouqueval ;  and  how  shall  we  be  able  to  walk 
from  hence  to  the  farm  ?  " 

"  All  that  I  can  tell  you,  my  dear  child,"  answered  the 
femme  de  charge,  kindly,  "  is,  that  I  am  obeying  their 
orders  given  me  by  your  benefactors,  and  that  you  will 
pain  them  greatly  if  you  keep  your  friends  waiting." 

"Oh,  not  for  worlds  would  I  be  so  presuming  and 
ungrateful  as  to  oppose  their  slightest  wish !  "  exclaimed 
poor  Fleur-de-Marie,  with  kindling  warmth,  "  and  I  be- 
seech you,  madame,  to  pardon  my  seeming  hesitation ; 
but,  since  you  plead  the  commands  of  my  revered  pro- 
tectors, depend  upon  my  following  you  blindly  and 
silently  whithersoever  you  are  pleased  to  take  me.  Only 
tell  me,  is  Madame  Georges  quite  well  ?  " 

"  Oh,  in  most  excellent  health  and  spirits ! " 

«  And  M.  Rodolph  ?  " 
*  «  Perfectly  well,  also." 

"  Then  you  know  him  ?    But,  madame,  when  I  was 
speaking  to  Rigolette  concerning  him  just  now,  you  did 
257 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


not  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  him ;  at  least,  you  did 
not  say  so." 

"  Because,  in  pursuance  with  the  directions  given  me, 
I  affected  to  be  ignorant  of  the  person  you  alluded  to." 

"  And  did  M.  Rodolph,  himself,  give  you  those  orders  ? " 

"  Why,  what  a  dear,  curious  little  thing  this  is  !  "  said 
the  femme  de  charge,  smilingly ;  "  I  must  mind  what  I 
am  about,  or,  with  her  innocent  ways  of  putting  ques- 
tions, she  will  find  out  all  my  secrets !  " 

"  Indeed,  madame,  I  am  ashamed  of  seeming  so  in- 
quisitive, but  if  you  could  only  imagine  how  my  heart 
beats  with  joy  at  the  bare  thoughts  of  seeing  my  beloved 
friends  again,  you  would  pardon  me ;  but,  as  we  have 
only  to  walk  on  to  the  place  whither  you  are  taking  me, 
I  shall  soon  be  able  to  gratify  my  wishes,  without  tor- 
menting you  by  further  inquiries." 

"  To  be  sure  you  will,  my  dear,  for  I  promise  you  that 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  shall  have  reached  the  end 
of  our  journey." 

The  femme  de  charge,  having  now  left  behind  the  last 
houses  in  the  village  of  Batignolles,  conducted  Fleur-de- 
Marie  across  a  grassy  road,  bordered  on  each  side  by 
lofty  walnut-trees.  The  day  was  warm  and  fine,  the  sky 
half  covered  by  the  rich  purple  clouds  of  the  setting  sun, 
which  now  cast  its  declining  rays  on  the  heights  of  the 
colombes,  situated  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine.  As 
Fleur-de-Marie  approached  the  banks  of  the  river,  a  deli- 
cate bloom  tinged  her  pale  cheeks,  and  she  seemed  to 
breathe  with  delight  the  pure  fresh  air  that  blew  from 
the  country.  Indeed,  so  strongly  was  the  look  of  happi- 
ness imprinted  on  her  countenance,  that  even  Madame 
S^raphin  could  not  avoid  noticing  it. 

"  You  seem  full  of  joy,  my  dear  child ;  I  declare  it  is 
quite  a  pleasure  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  I  am  overflowing  with  gratitude  and 
eagerness  at  the  thoughts  of  seeing  my  dear  Madame 
Georges  so  soon,  and  perhaps,  too,  M.  Rodolph  !  I  trust 
258 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


I  may,  for,  besides  my  own  happiness  at  beholding  him, 
I  want  to  speak  to  him  in  favour  of  several  poor  unfor- 
tunate persons  I  should  be  so  glad  to  recommend  to  his 
kindness  and  protection.  How,  then,  can  I  be  sad  when 
I  have  so  many  delightful  things  to  look  forward  to  ? 
Oh,  who  could  be  unhappy,  with  such  a  prospect  as  mine  ? 
And  see,  too,  how  gay  and  beautiful  the  sky  is,  all  cov- 
ered with  bright,  golden  clouds  !  And  the  dear  soft  green 
grass,  —  I  think  it  seems  greener  than  ever,  spite  of  the 
season.  And  look  —  look  out  there !  See,  where  the 
river  flows  behind  those  willow-trees !  Oh,  how  wide 
and  sparkling  it  seems ;  and,  when  the  sun  shines  on  it, 
it  almost  dazzles  my  eyes  to  gaze  on  it !  It  seems  like  a 
sheet  of  gold.  Ah,  I  saw  it  shining  in  the  same  way  in 
the  basin  of  the  prison  a  little  while  ago !  God  does  not 
forget  even  the  poor  prisoners,  but  allows  them  to  have  a 
sight  of  his  wondrous  works.  Though  they  are  separated 
by  high  stone  walls  from  their  fellow  creatures,  the  glo- 
rious sun  shows  them  his  golden  face,  and  sparkles  and 
glitters  upon  the  water  there,  the  same  as  in  the  gardens 
of  a  king  !  "  added  Fleur-de-Marie,  with  pious  gratitude. 
Then,  incited  by  a  reference  to  her  captivity  still  more  to 
appreciate  the  charms  of  liberty,  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
burst  of  innocent  delight :  "  Oh,  pray,  madame,  do  look 
there,  just  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  at  that  pretty  little 
island,  bordered  with  willows  and  poplars,  and  that  sweet 
little  white  house,  almost  close  to  the  water's  edge  !  How 
delicious  it  must  be  to  live  there  in  the  summer,  when 
all  the  leaves  are  on  the  trees  and  the  birds  sing  so 
sweetly  among  the  branches  !  Oh,  how  quiet  and  cool  it 
must  be  in  that  nice  place  !  " 

"  Well,  really,  now,  my  dear,"  said  Madame  Se'raphin, 
with  a  grim  smile,  "  it  is  singular  enough  your  being  so 
much  struck  with  that  little  isle !  " 

"  Why,  madame  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  there  we  are  actually  going  to." 
"  Going  to  that  island  ? " 

259 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Yes  ;  does  that  astonish  you  ? " 
"  Rather  so,  madame." 

"  But  suppose  you  found  your  friends  there  ?  " 
"  Oh,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Suppose,  I  say,  you  found  all  your  friends  had  as- 
sembled there,  to  welcome  you  on  your  release  from 
prison,  should  you  not  then  be  greatly  surprised  ? " 

"  Oh,  if  it  were  but  possible !  My  dear  Madame 
Georges  ?  —  M.  Rodolph  ? " 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  I  am  just  like  a  baby  in 
your  hands,  and  you  turn  and  twist  me  just  as  you  please  ; 
it  is  useless  for  me  to  try  to  conceal  anything,  for,  with 
your  little  winning  ways,  you  find  out  all  secrets." 

"  Then  I  shall  soon  see  them  again  ?  Dear  madame, 
how  can  I  ever  thank  you  sufficiently  for  your  goodness 
to  a  poor  girl  like  me  ?  Feel  how  my  heart  beats  !  It  is 
all  with  joy  and  happiness  !  " 

"  Well,  well,  my  love,  be  as  wild  with  delight  as  you 
please,  but  pray  do  not  hurry  on  so  very  fast.  You  for- 
get, you  little  mad  thing,  that  my  old  bones  cannot  run 
as  fast  as  your  nimble  young  feet." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madame ;  but  I  cannot  help  being 
quite  impatient  to  arrive  where  we  are  going." 

"  To  be  sure  you  cannot ;  don't  fancy  I  mean  to  blame 
you  for  it ;  quite  the  contrary." 

"  The  road  slopes  a  little  now,  madame,  and  it  is  rather 
rough,  too  ;  will  you  accept  of  my  arm  to  assist  you 
down  ?  " 

"  I  never  refuse  a  good  offer,  my  dear ;  for  I  am  some- 
what infirm,  as  well  as  old,  while  you  are  young  and 
active." 

"  Then  pray  lean  all  your  weight  on  me,  madame ; 
don't  be  afraid  of  tiring  me." 

"  Many  thanks,  my  child  !  Your  help  was  really  very 
serviceable,  for  the  descent  is  so  extremely  rapid  just 
here.  Now,  then,  we  are  once  more  on  smooth,  level 
ground." 

260 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


"  Oh,  madame,  can  it,  indeed,  be  true  that  I  am  about 
to  meet  my  dear  Madame  Georges  ?  I  can  scarcely 
persuade  myself  it  is  reality." 

"  A  little  patience,  —  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  and 
then  you  will  see  whether  it  is  true  or  false." 

"  But  what  puzzles  me,"  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  after  a 
moment's  reflection,  "  is,  why  Madame  Georges  should 
have  thought  proper  to  meet  me  here,  instead  of  at  the 
farm." 

"  Still  curious,  my  dear  child,  still  wanting  to  know 
everybody's  reasons." 

"  How  very  foolish  and  unreasonable  I  am,  am  I  not, 
madame  ? "  said  Fleur-de-Marie,  smiling. 

"  And,  by  way  of  punishing  you,  I  have  a  great  mind 
to  tell  you  what  the  surprise  is  that  your  friends  have 
prepared  for  you." 

"  For  me,  madame,  a  surprise  ?  " 

"  Be  quiet,  you  little  chatterbox  !  You  will  make  me 
reveal  the  secret,  in  spite  of  myself." 

We  shall  now  leave  Madame  S£raphin  and  her  victim 
proceeding  along  the  road  which  led  to  the  river's  side, 
while  we  precede  them,  by  a  few  minutes,  to  the  Isle  du 
Ravageur. 


261 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE  BOATS. 

During  the  night  the  appearance  of  the  isle  inhabited 
by  the  Martial  family  was  very  gloomy,  but  by  the  bright 
light  of  day  nothing  could  be  more  smiling  than  this 
accursed  spot.  Bordered  by  willows  and  poplars,  almost 
entirely  covered  with  thick  grass,  in  which  wound  several 
paths  of  yellow  sand,  the  islet  included  a  kitchen-garden 
and  a  good  number  of  fruit-trees.  In  the  midst  of  the 
orchard  was  to  be  seen  the  hovel,  with  the  thatched  roof, 
into  which  Martial  had  expressed  his  intention  to  retire 
with  Francois  and  Amandine.  On  this  side,  the  isle 
terminated  at  its  point  by  a  kind  of  stockade,  formed  of 
large  piles,  driven  in  to  prevent  the  soil  from  wearing 
away. 

In  front  of  the  house,  and  almost  touching  the  land- 
ing-place, was  a  small  arbour  of  green  trellis-work, 
intended  to  support  in  summer-time  the  creeping  shoots 
of  the  young  vines  and  hops,  —  a  cradle  of  verdure,  be- 
neath which  were  arranged  tables  for  the  visitors.  At 
one  end  of  the  house,  painted  white  and  covered  with 
tiles,  a  wood-house,  with  a  loft  over  it,  formed  at  the 
angle  a  small  wing,  much  lower  than  the  main  body  of 
the  building.  Almost  precisely  over  this  wing  there 
appeared  a  window,  with  the  shutters  covered  with  iron 
plates,  and  strengthened  without  by  two  transverse  iron 
bars  attached  to  the  wall  by  strong  clamps. 

Three  boats  were  undulating  in  the  water,  fastened  to 
262 


THE  BOATS. 


posts  at  the  landing-place.  Seated  in  one  of  these  boats, 
Nicholas  was  making  sure  that  the  valve  he  had  intro- 
duced performed  its  part  properly.  Standing  on  a  bench 
at  the  mouth  of  the  arbour,  Calabash,  with  her  hands 
placed  over  her  eyes  so  as  to  shade  away  the  sun,  was 
looking  out  in  the  direction  in  which  Madame  Seraphin 
and  Fleur-de-Marie  were  to  come  to  reach  the  isle. 

"  I  don't  see  any  one  yet,  old  or  young,"  said  Cala- 
bash, getting  off  the  bench  and  speaking  to  Nicholas. 
"It  will  be  just  as  it  was  yesterday;  we  may  as  well 
wait  for  the  King  of  Prussia.  If  these  women  do  not 
come  in  half  an  hour,  we  can't  wait  any  longer ;  Bras- 
Rouge's  '  dodge '  is  much  better,  and  he'll  be  waiting  for 
us.  The  diamond-matcher  is  to  be  at  his  place  in  the 
Champs  Elyse'es  at  five  o'clock.  TVe  ought  to  be  there 
before  her ;  the  Chouette  said  so  this  morning." 

"  You  are  right,"  replied  Nicholas,  leaving  the  boat. 
"  May  thunder  smite  the  old  devil's  kin,  who  has  given 
us  all  the  trouble  for  nothing  !  The  valve  works  capi- 
tally. It  appears  we  shall  only  have  one  instead  of  two 
jobs." 

"  Besides,  Bras-Rouge  and  Barbillon  will  want  us ; 
they  can  do  nothing  by  their  two  selves." 

"  True,  again  ;  for,  whilst  the  job  is  doing,  Bras-Rouge 
must  keep  watch  outside  the  cabaret,  and  Barbillon  is 
not  strong  enough  to  drag  the  matcher  into  the  cellar, 
for  the  old  will  fight  for  it,  I  know  ! " 

"  Didn't  the  Chouette  say  that,  for  a  joke,  she  had  got 
the  Schoolmaster  at '  school '  in  the  cellar  ?  " 

"  Not  in  this  one ;  in  another  much  deeper,  and  which 
is  filled  with  water  at  spring-tides." 

"  How  the  Schoolmaster  must  rage  and  foam  there  in 
the  cellar  !    There  all  alone,  and  blind,  too  !  " 

"  That  is  no  matter,  for,  if  he  saw  as  clear  as  ever, 
he  could  see  nothing  there ;  the  cellar  is  as  dark  as  an 
oven." 

"  Still,  when  he  has  done  singing  all  the  songs  he 
263 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


knows,  to  pass  away  the  time,  his  days  must  hang 
precious  heavy  on  his  hands." 

"  The  Chouette  says  that  he  amuses  himself  with  rat- 
hunting,  and  that  the  cellar  is  full  of  game." 

"  I  say,  Nicholas,  talking  of  certain  persons  who  must 
be  tired,  and  fume,  and  fret,"  remarked  Calabash,  with 
a  savage  smile,  and  pointing  to  the  window  fastened  up 
with  the  iron  plates,  "  there  is  one  there  who  must  be 
ready  to  devour  his  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"  Bah !  He's  asleep.  Since  the  morning  he  hasn't 
stirred,  and  his  dog  is  silent." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  strangled  him  for  food.  For  two 
days,  they  must  both  be  desperate  hungry  and  thirsty  up 
there  together." 

"  That  is  their  affair.  Martial  may  still  last  a  long 
time  in  this  way,  if  it  amuses  him.  When  it  is  done, 
why,  we  shall  say  he  died  of  his  complaint,  and  there'll 
be  an  end  of  that  affair." 

"Do  you  think  so ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do.  As  mother  went  to  Asnieres  this 
morning,  she  met  P£re  F6rot,  the  fisherman,  and,  as  he 
was  very  much  astonished  at  not  having  seen  his  friend 
Martial  for  the  last  two  days,  mother  told  him  that  Mar- 
tial was  confined  to  his  bed,  and  was  so  ill  that  his  life 
was  despaired  of.  Daddy  Fdrot  swallowed  all,  like  so 
much  honey ;  he'll  tell  everybody  else,  and  when  the 
thing's  done  and  over,  why,  it'll  all  seem  nat'ral 
enough." 

"  Yes,  but  he  won't  die  directly ;  this  way  is  a  tedious 
one." 

"  What  else  is  to  be  done  ?  There  was  no  way  of 
doing  otherwise.  That  devil  of  a  Martial,  when  he's 
put  up,  is  as  full  of  mischief  as  the  old  one  himself,  and 
as  strong  as  a  bull ;  particularly  when  he  suspects  any- 
thing, it  is  dangerous  to  approach  him ;  but,  now  his 
door  is  well  nailed  up  on  the  outside,  what  can  he  do  ? 
His  window  is  strongly  fastened  with  iron,  too." 

264 


THE  BOATS. 


"  Why,  he  might  have  driven  out  the  bars  by  cutting 
away  the  plaster  with  his  knife,  and  he  would  have  done 
it,  only  I  got  up  the  ladder,  and  chopped  at  his  fingers 
with  the  bill-hook  every  time  he  tried  to  go  to  work." 

"  What  a  pleasant  watch ! "  said  the  ruffian,  with  a 
chuckle  ;  "  it  must  have  been  vastly  amusing !  " 

"  Why,  it  was  to  give  you  time  to  come  with  the  iron 
plates  you  went  to  get  from  Pere  Micou." 

"  What  a  rage  the  dear  brother  must  have  been 
in!" 

"  He  ground  his  teeth  like  a  lunatic.  Two  or  three 
times  he  tried  to  drive  me  away  from  the  iron  bars  with 
his  stick,  but  then,  as  he  had  only  one  hand  at  liberty, 
he  could  not  work  and  release  the  iron  bars,  which  was 
what  he  was  trying  at." 

"  Fortunately,  there's  no  fireplace  in  his  room,  and  the 
door  is  solid,  and  his  hands  finely  cut ;  if  not,  he  would 
work  his  way  through  the  floor." 

"  What !  Through  those  heavy  beams  ?  No,  no, 
there's  no  chance  of  his  escaping;  the  shutters  are 
covered  with  iron  plates  and  strengthened  with  two 
bars  of  iron,  the  door  is  nailed  up  outside  with  large 
boat-nails  three  inches  long.  His  coffin  is  more  solid 
than  if  it  were  made  of  oak  and  lead." 

"  I  say,  though,  when  La  Louve  comes  out  of  prison, 
and  makes  her  way  here,  to  see  her  man,  as  she  calls 
him?" 

"  Well,  we  shall  say,  'Look  for  him.'  " 

"  By  the  way,  do  you  know  that,  if  mother  had  not 
shut  up  those  young  '  rips '  of  children,  they  would  have 
gnawed  their  ways  through  the  door,  like  young  rats,  to 
free  Martial  ?  That  little  vagabond  Francis  is  quite 
furious  since  he  suspects  we  have  packed  away  his 
tall  brother." 

"  But,  you  know,  they  mustn't  be  left  in  the  room  up- 
stairs whilst  we  leave  the  island;  the  window  is  not 
barred,  and  they  have  only  to  drop  down  outside." 

265 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


At  this  moment  the  attention  of  Nicholas  and  Cala- 
bash was  attracted  by  the  sound  of  cries  and  sobs  which 
came  from  the  house.  They  saw  the  door  of  the  ground 
floor,  which  had  been  open  until  then,  close  violently, 
and  a  minute  afterwards  the  pale  and  sinister  counte- 
nance of  Mere  Martial  appeared  through  the  bars  of  the 
kitchen  window.  With  her  long  lean  arm  the  culprit's 
widow  made  a  sign  to  her  children  to  come  to  her. 

"  There's  a  row,  I  know ;  I'll  bet  that  it  is  Francois, 
who's  giving  himself  some  airs  again,"  said  Nicholas. 
"  That  beggar  Martial !  But  for  him,  this  young  scamp 
would  be  by  himself.  You  keep  a  good  look-out,  and, 
if  you  see  the  two  women  coming,  give  me  a  call." 

Whilst  Calabash  again  mounted  the  bench,  and  looked 
out  for  the  arrival  of  SeVaphin  and  the  Goualeuse, 
Nicholas  entered  the  house.  Little  Amandine  was  on 
her  knees  in  the  centre  of  the  kitchen,  sobbing  and 
asking  pardon  for  her  Brother  Francois.  Enraged 
and  threatened,  the  lad,  ensconced  in  one  of  the  angles 
of  the  apartment,  had  Nicholas's  hatchet  in  his  hand, 
and  appeared  determined  this  time  to  offer  the  most 
desperate  resistance  to  his  mother's  wishes.  Impassive 
as  usual,  showing  Nicholas  the  cellar,  the  widow  made  a 
sign  to  her  son  to  shut  Francois  up  there. 

"  I  will  never  be  shut  up  there ! "  cried  the  boy,  in  a 
determined  tone.  "  You  want  to  make  us  die  of  hunger, 
like  Brother  Martial." 

The  widow  looked  at  Nicholas  with  an  impatient  air, 
as  if  to  reproach  him  for  not  instantly  executing  her 
commands,  as,  with  another  imperious  gesture,  she 
pointed  to  Francois.  Seeing  his  brother  advance 
towards  him,  the  young  boy  brandished  the  axe  with 
a  desperate  air  and  cried : 

"  If  you  try  to  shut  me  up  there,  whether  it  is  mother, 
brother,  or  Calabash,  so  much  the  worse.  I  shall  strike, 
and  the  hatchet  cuts." 

Nicholas  felt  as  the  widow  did  the  pressing  necessity 
266 


THE  BOATS. 


there  was  to  prevent  the  two  children  from  going  to 
Martial's  succour  whilst  the  house  was  left  to  itself,  as 
well  as  to  put  them  out  of  the  way  of  seeing  the  scenes 
which  were  about  to  pass,  for  their  window  looked  onto 
the  river,  in  which  they  were  about  to  drown  Fleur-de- 
Marie.  But  Nicholas  was  as  cowardly  as  he  was  fero- 
cious, and,  afraid  of  receiving  a  blow  from  the  dangerous 
hatchet  with  which  his  young  brother  was  armed,  hesi- 
tated to  approach  him.  The  widow,  angry  at  his 
hesitation,  pushed  him  towards  Francois ;  but  Nicho- 
las, again  retreating,  exclaimed : 

"  But,  mother,  if  he  cuts  me  ?  You  know  I  want  all 
my  arms  and  fingers  at  this  time,  and  I  feel  still  the 
thump  that  brute  Martial  gave  me." 

The  widow  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  advanced 
towards  Francois. 

"  Don't  come  near  me,  mother,"  shrieked  the  boy  in 
a  fury,  "  or  you'll  pay  dear  for  all  the  beatings  you  have 
given  me  and  Amandine  ! " 

"  Let  'em  shut  us  up ;  don't  strike  mother ! "  cried 
Amandine,  in  fear. 

At  this  moment  Nicholas  saw  upon  a  chair  a  large 
blanket  which  he  used  to  wrap  his  booty  in  at  times, 
and,  taking  hold  of  and  partly  unfolding  it,  he  threw  it 
completely  over  Francois's  head,  who,  in  spite  of  his 
efforts,  finding  himself  entangled  under  its  folds,  could 
not  make  use  of  his  weapon.  Nicholas  then  seized  hold 
of  him,  and,  with  his  mother's  help,  carried  him  into  the 
cellar.  Amandine  had  continued  kneeling  in  the  centre 
of  the  kitchen,  and,  as  soon  as  she  saw  her  brother  over- 
come, she  sprang  up  and,  in  spite  of  her  fright,  went  to 
join  him  in  the  dark  hole.  The  door  was  then  double- 
locked  on  the  brother  and  sister. 

"  It  will  still  be  that  infernal  Martial's  fault,  if  these 
children  behave  in  this  outrageous  manner  to  us,"  said 
Nicholas. 

"Nothing  has  been  heard  in  his  room  since  this 
267 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


morning,"  said  the  widow,  with  a  pensive  air,  and  she 
shuddered,  "  nothing  !  " 

"  That's  a  sign,  mother,  that  you  were  right  to  say  to 
Pere  Fe"rot,  the  fisherman  at  Asnieres,  that  Martial  had 
been  so  dangerously  ill  as  to  be  confined  to  his  bed  for 
the  last  two  days ;  for  now,  when  all  is  known,  it  will 
not  astonish  anybody." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  as  and  if  she  wished  to 
escape  a  painful  thought,  the  widow  replied,  suddenly : 

"Didn't  the  Chouette  come  here  whilst  I  was  at 
Asnieres  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Why  didn't  she  stay  and  accompany  us  to  Bras- 
Rouge's  ?    I  mistrust  her." 

"  Bah !  You  mistrust  everybody,  mother ;  you  are 
always  fancying  they  are  going  to  play  you  some 
trick.  To-day  it  is  the  Chouette,  yesterday  it  was 
Bras-Rouge." 

"  Bras-Rouge  is  at  liberty,  —  my  son  is  at  Toulon,  yet 
they  committed  the  same  robbery." 

"  You  are  always  saying  this.  Bras-Rouge  escaped 
because  he  is  as  cunning  as  a  fox  —  that's  it ;  the 
Chouette  did  not  stay,  because  she  had  an  appoint- 
ment at  two  o'clock,  near  the  Observatory,  with  the 
tall  man  in  black,  at  whose  desire  she  has  carried  off 
this  young  country  girl,  by  the  help  of  the  Schoolmaster 
and  Tortillard ;  and  Barbillon  drove  the  hackney-coach 
which  the  tall  man  in  black  had  hired  for  the  job.  So 
how,  mother,  do  you  suppose  the  Chouette  would  inform 
against  us,  when  she  tells  us  the  '  jobs '  she  has  in  hand, 
and  we  do  not  tell  her  ours  ?  for  she  knows  nothing  of 
this  drowning  job  that  is  to  come  off  directly.  Be  easy, 
mother ;  wolves  don't  eat  each  other,  and  this  will  be 
a  good  day's  work ;  and  when  I  recollect,  too,  that  the 
jewel-matcher  has  often  about  her  twenty  to  thirty  thou- 
sand francs'  worth  of  diamonds  in  her  bag,  and  that,  in 
less  than  two  hours,  we  shall  have  her  in  Bras-Rouge's 
268 


THE  BOATS. 


cellar !  Thirty  thousand  francs'  worth  of  diamonds, 
mother!  Think  of  that!" 

"  And,  whilst  we  lay  hands  on  this  woman,  Bras- 
Rouge  is  to  remain  outside  the  cabaret  ? "  inquired 
the  widow,  with  an  air  of  suspicion. 

"  Well,  and  where  would  you  have  him,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?  If  any  one  comes  to  his  house,  mustn't  he  be 
outside  the  door  to  answer  them,  and  prevent  them  from 
entering  the  place  whilst  we  are  doing  our  '  job  ? '  " 

"  Nicholas  !  Nicholas ! "  cried  Calabash,  at  this  moment 
from  outside,  "  here  come  the  two  women  !  " 

"  Quick,  quick,  mother !  Your  shawl !  I  will  land  you 
on  the  other  side,  and  that  will  be  so  much  done,"  said 
Nicholas. 

The  widow  had  replaced  her  mourning  head-dress  with 
a  high  black  cap,  in  which  she  now  made  her  appearance. 
At  the  instigation  of  Nicholas,  she  wrapped  herself  in  a 
large  plaid  shawl,  with  gray  and  white  checks  ;  and,  after 
having  carefully  closed  and  secured  the  kitchen  door,  she 
placed  the  key  behind  one  of  the  window-shutters  on  the 
ground-floor,  and  followed  her  son,  who  was  hastily 
pursuing  his  way  to  the  landing-place.  Almost  invol- 
untarily, as  she  quitted  the  island,  she  cast  a  long  and 
meditative  look  at  Martial's  window ;  and  the  train  of 
thought  to  which  its  firmly  nailed  and  iron-bound  exte- 
rior gave  rise  seemed,  to  judge  by  their  effect,  to  be  of  a 
very  mingled  and  complicated  character,  for  she  knitted 
her  brows,  pursed  her  lips,  and  then,  after  a  sudden 
convulsive  shudder,  she  murmured,  in  a  low  hesitating 
voice : 

"  It  is  his  own  fault  —  it  is  his  own  fault !  " 

"  Nicholas,  do  you  see  them  ?  Just  down  there,  along 
the  path,  —  a  country  girl  and  an  old  woman !  "  exclaimed 
Calabash,  pointing  to  the  other  side  of  the  river,  where 
Madame  Seraphin  and  Fleur-de-Marie  were  descending  a 
narrow,  winding  path  which  passed  by  a  high  bank,  on 
the  top  of  which  were  the  lime-kilns. 

269 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Let  us  wait  for  the  signal ;  don't  let  us  spoil  the  job 
by  too  much  haste,"  said  Nicholas. 

"  What !  Are  you  blind  ?  Don't  you  recognise  the  stout 
woman  who  came  the  day  before  yesterday  ?  Look  at 
her  orange  shawl ;  and  the  little  country  girl,  what  a 
hurry  she  seems  in !  She's  a  good  little  thing,  I  know ; 
and  it's  plain  she  has  no  idea  of  what  is  going  to  happen 
to  her,  or  she  wouldn't  hasten  on  at  that  pace,  I'm 
thinking." 

"  Yes,  I  recollect  the  stout  woman  now.  It's  all  right, 
then  —  all  right !  Although  they  are  so  much  behind  the 
time  I  had  almost  given  up  the  job  as  bad.  But  let  us 
quite  understand  the  thing,  Calabash.  I  shall  take  the 
old  woman  and  the  young  girl  in  the  boat  with  a  valve 
to  it ;  you  will  follow  me  close  on,  stern  to  stern  ;  and 
mind  and  row  steadily,  so  that,  with  one  spring,  I  may 
jump  from  one  boat  to  the  other,  as  soon  as  I  have 
opened  the  pipe  and  the  water  begins  to  sink  the  boat." 

"  Don't  be  afraid  about  me,  it  is  not  the  first  time  I've 
pulled  a  boat,  is  it  ? " 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  drowned,  you  know  I  can 
swim ;  but,  if  I  did  not  jump  well  into  the  other  boat, 
why,  the  women,  in  their  struggles  against  drowning, 
might  catch  hold  of  me  and  —  much  obliged  to  you, 
but  I  have  no  fancy  for  a  bath  with  the  two  ladies." 

"  The  old  woman  waves  her  handkerchief,"  said 
Calabash ;  "  there  they  are  on  the  bank." 

"  Come,  come  along,  mother,  let's  push  off,"  said 
Nicholas,  unmooring.  "  Come  you  into  the  boat  with 
the  valve,  then  the  two  women  will  not  have  any  fear ; 
and  you,  Calabash,  jump  into  t'other,  and  use  your  arms, 
my  girl,  and  pull  a  good  one.  Ah,  by  the  way,  take  the 
boat-hook  and  put  it  beside  you,  it  is  as  sharp  as  a  lance, 
and  it  may  be  useful,"  added  the  ruffian,  as  he  placed 
beside  Calabash  in  the  boat  a  long  hook  with  a  sharp 
iron  point. 

A  few  moments,  and  the  two  boats,  one  rowed  by 
270 


THE  BOATS. 


Nicholas  and  the  other  by  Calabash,  reached  the  shore 
where,  for  some  moments,  Madame  Se"raphin  and  Fleur- 
de-Marie  had  been  waiting.  Whilst  Nicholas  was  fas- 
tening his  boat  to  a  post  on  the  bank,  Madame  SeVaphin 
approached  him,  and  said,  in  a  low  and  rapid  tone : 

"  Say  that  Madame  Georges  is  waiting  for  us  at  the 
island,  —  you  understand?"  And  then,  in  a  louder 
voice,  she  added,  "  We  are  rather  late,  my  lad." 

"  Yes,  my  good  lady,  Madame  Georges  has  been  ask- 
ing for  you  several  times." 

"You  see,  my  dear  young  lady,  Madame  Georges  is 
waiting  for  us,"  said  Madame  Seraphin,  turning  to 
Fleur-de-Marie,  who,  in  spite  of  her  confidence,  had 
felt  considerable  repugnance  at  the  sight  of  the 
sinister  countenances  of  Calabash,  Nicholas,  and  the 
widow ;  but  the  mention  of  Madame  Georges  reas- 
sured her,  and  she  replied : 

"  I  am  just  as  impatient  to  see  Madame  Georges  ; 
fortunately,  it  is  not  a  long  way  across." 

"  How  delighted  the  dear  lady  will  be  !  "  said  Madame 
Seraphin.  Then,  addressing  Nicholas,  "  Now,  then,  my 
lad,  bring  your  boat  a  little  closer  that  we  may  get  in." 
Adding,  in  an  undertone, "  The  girl  must  be  drowned, 
mind ;  if  she  comes  up  thrust  her  back  again  into  the 
water." 

"  All  right,  ma'am ;  and  don't  be  alarmed  yourself, 
but,  when  I  make  you  the  signal,  give  me  your  hand, 
she'll  then  pass  under  all  alone,  for  everything's  ready, 
and  you  have  nothing  to  fear,"  replied  Nicholas,  in  a 
similar  tone ;  and  then,  with  savage  brutality,  unmoved 
by  Fleur-de-Marie' s  youth  and  beauty,  he  put  his  hand 
out  to  her.  The  young  girl  leaned  lightly  on  him  and 
entered  the  boat. 

"  Now  you,  my  good  lady,"  said  Nicholas  to  Madame 
Seraphin,  offering  her  his  hand  in  turn. 

Was  it  presentiment,  or  mistrust,  or  only  fear  that  she 
could  not  spring  quickly  enough  out  of  the  little  bark 
271 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


in  which  Nicholas  and  the  Goualeuse  were,  that  made 
Jacques  Ferrand's  housekeeper  say  to  Nicholas,  shrink- 
ing back,  "  No,  I'll  go  in  the  boat  with  mademoiselle  ?  " 
And  she  took  her  seat  by  Calabash. 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  said  Nicholas,  exchanging  an 
expressive  look  with  his  sister  as,  with  a  vigorous 
thrust  with  his  oar,  he  drove  his  boat  from  the  bank. 

His  sister  did  the  same  directly  Madame  Se'raphin 
was  seated  beside  her.  Standing,  looking  fixedly  on 
the  bank,  indifferent  to  the  scene,  the  widow,  pensive 
and  absorbed,  fixed  her  look  obstinately  on  Martial's 
window,  which  was  discernible  from  the  landing-place 
through  the  poplars.  During  this  time  the  two  boats, 
in  the  first  of  which  were  Nicholas  and  Fleur-de-Marie 
and  in  the  other  Calabash  and  Madame  Seraphin,  left 
the  bank  slowly. 


272 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 

Before  the  reader  is  made  acquainted  with  the 
denouement  of  the  drama  then  passing  in  Nicholas's 
boat,  we  shall  beg  leave  to  retrace  our  steps. 

Shortly  after  Fleur-de-Marie  had  quitted  St.  Lazare 
in  company  of  Madame  Seraphin,  La  Louve  also  left 
that  prison.  Thanks  to  the  recommendations  of  Madame 
Armand  and  the  governor,  who  were  desirous  of  recom- 
pensing her  for  her  kindness  towards  Mont  Saint-Jean, 
the  few  remaining  days  the  beloved  of  Martial  had  still 
to  remain  in  confinement  were  remitted  her.  A  com- 
plete change  had  come  over  this  hitherto  depraved, 
degraded,  and  intractable  being.  Forever  brooding  over 
the  description  of  the  peaceful,  wild,  and  retired  life, 
so  beautifully  depictured  by  Fleur-de-Marie,  La  Louve 
entertained  the  utmost  horror  and  disgust  of  her  past 
life.  To  bury  herself  with  Martial  in  the  deep  shades 
of  some  vast  forest,  such  was  her  waking  and  dreaming 
thought,  —  the  one  fixed  idea  of  her  existence,  against 
which  all  her  former  evil  inclinations  had  in  vain  strug- 
gled when,  separating  herself  from  La  Goualeuse,  whose 
growing  influence  she  feared,  this  singular  creature  had 
retired  to  another  part  of  St.  Lazare. 

To  complete  this  sincere  though  rapid  conversion, 
still  more  assured  by  the  ineffectual  resistance  attempted 
by  the  perverse  and  froward  habits  of  her  companion, 
Fleur-de-Marie,  following  the  dictates  of  her  own  natural 
good  sense,  had  thus  reasoned : 
273 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  La  Louve,  a  violent  and  determined  creature,  is 
passionately  fond  of  Martial.  She  would,  then,  hail 
with  delight  the  means  of  quitting  the  disgraceful  life 
she  now,  for  the  first  time,  views  with  shame  and  dis- 
gust, for  the  purpose  of  entirely  devoting  herself  to  the 
rude,  unpolished  man  whose  taste  she  so  entirely  par- 
takes of,  and  who  seeks  to  hide  himself  from  the  world, 
as  much  from  inclination  as  from  a  desire  of  escaping 
from  the  universal  reprobation  in  which  his  family  is 
viewed." 

Assisted  by  these  small  materials,  gleaned  during  her 
conversation  with  La  Louve,  Fleur-de-Marie,  in  giving  a 
right  direction  to  the  unbridled  passion  and  restraining 
the  daring  hardihood  of  the  reckless  creature,  had  pos- 
itively converted  a  lost,  wretched  being  into  an  honest 
woman ;  for  what  could  the  most  virtuous  of  her  sex 
have  desired  more  than  to  bestow  her  undivided  affec- 
tions on  the  man  of  her  choice,  to  dwell  with  him  in 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  woods,  where  hard  labour, 
privations  and  poverty,  would  all  be  cheerfully  borne 
and  shared  for  his  dear  sake,  to  whom  her  heart  was 
given  ? 

And  such  was  the  constant,  ardent  prayer  of  La 
Louve.  Relying  on  the  assistance  which  Fleur-de-Marie 
had  assured  her  of  in  the  name  of  an  unknown  bene- 
factor, La  Louve  determined  to  make  her  praiseworthy 
proposal  to  her  lover,  not,  indeed,  without  the  keen  and 
bitter  apprehension  of  being  rejected  by  him,  for  La 
Goualeuse,  while  she  brought  her  to  blush  for  her  past 
life,  awakened  her  to  a  just  sense  also  of  her  position  as 
regarded  Martial. 

Once  at  liberty,  La  Louve  thought  only  of  seeing 
"  her  man,"  as  she  called  him.  He  took  exclusive 
possession  of  her  mind ;  she  had  heard  nothing  of  him 
for  several  days.  In  the  hopes  of  meeting  with  him  in 
the  Isle  du  Ravageur,  and  with  the  determination  of 
waiting  there  until  he  came,  should  she  fail  to  find  him 
274 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


at  first,  she  paid  the  driver  of  a  cabriolet  liberally  to 
conduct  her  with  all  speed  to  the  bridge  of  Asnieres, 
which  she  crossed  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
Madame  Seraphin  and  Fleur  -  de  -  Marie  (they  having 
walked  from  the  barrier)  had  reached  the  banks  of  the 
river  near  the  lime-kilns.  As  Martial  did  not  present 
himself  to  ferry  La  Louve  across  to  the  Isle  du  Ravageur, 
she  applied  to  an  old  fisherman,  named  Father  Ferot, 
who  lived  close  by  the  bridge. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  day  when  a  cabriolet 
stopped  at  the  entrance  of  a  small  street  in  the  village 
of  Asnieres.  La  Louve  leaped  from  it  at  one  bound, 
threw  a  five-franc  piece  to  the  driver,  and  proceeded 
with  all  haste  to  the  dwelling  of  old  Ferot,  the  ferry- 
man. La  Louve,  no  longer  dressed  in  her  prison  garb, 
wore  a  gown  of  dark  green  merino,  a  red  imitation  of 
cashmere  shawl  with  large,  flaming  pattern,  and  a  net 
cap  trimmed  with  riband ;  her  thick,  curly  hair  was 
scarcely  smoothed  out,  her  impatient  longing  to  see 
Martial  having  rendered  an  ordinary  attention  to  her 
toilet  quite  impossible.  Any  other  female  would,  after 
so  long  a  separation,  have  exerted  her  very  utmost 
to  appear  becomingly  adorned  at  her  first  interview 
with  her  lover;  but  La  Louve  knew  little  and  cared 
less  for  all  these  coquettish  arts,  which  ill  accorded 
with  her  excitable  nature.  Her  first,  her  predominating 
desire  was  to  see  "  her  man"  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
this  impetuous  wish  was  caused,  not  alone  by  the  fervour 
of  a  love  which,  in  minds  as  wild  and  unregulated  as 
hers,  sometimes  leads  on  to  madness,  but  also  from  a 
yearning  to  pour  into  the  ear  of  Martial  the  virtuous 
resolutions  she  had  formed,  and  to  reveal  to  him  the 
bright  vista  of  happiness  opened  to  both  by  her  conver- 
sation with  Fleur-de-Marie. 

The  flying  steps  of  La  Louve  soon  conducted  her 
to  the  fisherman's  cottage,  and  there,  seated  tranquilly 
before  the  door,  she  found  Father  Ferot,  an  old,  white- 
275 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


headed  man,  busily  employed  mending  his  nets.  Even 
before  she  came  close  up  to  him,  La  Louve  cried  out: 
"  Quick,  quick,  Father  Fe'rot !    Your  boat !  Your 
boat!" 

"  What !  Is  it  you,  my  girl  ?  Well,  how  are  you  ? 
I  have  not  seen  you  this  long  while." 

"  I  know,  I  know  ;  but  where  is  your  boat  ?  and  take 
me  across  to  the  isle  as  fast  as  you  can  row." 

"  My  boat  ?  Well  to  be  sure !  Now,  how  very  unlucky ! 
As  if  it  was  to  be  so.  Bless  you,  my  girl,  it  is  quite  out 
of  my  power  to  ferry  you  across  to-day." 

"But  why?    Why  is  it?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  my  son  has  taken  my  boat  to  go  up 
to  the  boat-races  held  at  St.  Ouen.  Bless  your  heart,  I 
don't  think  there's  a  boat  left  all  along  the  river's  side." 

"■  Distraction !  "  exclaimed  La  Louve,  stamping  her 
foot  and  clenching  her  hand.  "  Then  all  is  lost ;  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  see  him !  " 

"  'Pon  my  honour  and  word,  it's  true,  though,"  said 
old  Fe'rot.  "  I  am  extremely  sorry  I  am  unable  to  ferry 
you  over,  because,  no  doubt,  by  your  going  on  so,  he  is 
very  much  worse." 

"  Who  is  much  worse  ?    Who  ?  " 

"  Why,  Martial !  " 

"  Martial ! "  exclaimed  La  Louve,  snatching  the  sleeve 
of  old  Fe'rot's  jacket,  "  My  man  ill  ? " 

"  Bless  me !    Did  you  not  know  it  ? " 

"  Martial  ?    Do  you  mean  Martial  ? " 

"  To  be  sure  I  do  ;  but  don't  hold  me  so  tight,  you'll 
tear  my  blouse.  Now  be  quiet,  there's  a  good  girl.  I 
declare  you  frighten  me,  you  stare  about  so  wildly." 

"  111 !  Martial  ill  ?    And  how  long  has  he  been  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  two  or  three  days." 

"  'Tis  false !  He  would  have  written  and  told  me  of 
it,  had  it  been  so." 

"  Ah,  but  then,  don't  you  see  ?  He's  been  too  bad  to 
handle  a  pen." 

276 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


"  Too  ill  to  write  !  And  he  is  on  the  isle !  Are  you 
sure  —  quite  sure  he  is  there  ?  " 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  you.  You  must  know,  this  morning, 
I  meets  the  widow  Martial.  Now  you  are  aware,  my 
girl,  that  most,  in  general,  when  I  notice  her  coming  one 
way,  I  make  it  my  business  to  go  the  other,  for  I  am  not 
particular  fond  of  her,  —  I  can't  say  I  am.    So  then  —  " 

"  But  my  man  —  my  man !    Tell  me  of  him  !  " 

"  Wait  a  bit,  —  I'm  coming  to  him.  So  when  I  found 
I  couldn't  get  away  from  the  mother,  and,  to  speak  the 
honest  truth,  that  woman  makes  me  afraid  to  seem  to 
slight  her.  She  has  a  sort  of  an  evil  look  about  her, 
like  one  as  could  do  you  any  manner  of  harm  for  only 
wishing  for;  I  can't  account  for  it,  I  don't  know  what 
it  is,  for  I  am  not  timorous  by  nature,  but  somehow  the 
widow  Martial  does  downright  scare  me.  Well,  says  I, 
thinking  just  to  say  a  few  words  and  pass  on, '  I  haven't 
seen  anything  of  your  son  Martial  these  last  two  or  three 
days,'  says  I, '  I  suppose  he's  not  with  you  just  now  ? ' 
upon  which  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me  with  such  a  look  ! 
"Tis  well  they  were  not  pistols,  or  they  would  have  shot 
me,  as  folks  say." 

"  You  drive  me  wild !  And  then  —  and  what  said 
she?" 

Father  Ferot  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
added : 

"  Come,  now,  you  are  a  right  sort  of  a  girl ;  if  you 
will  only  promise  me  to  be  secret,  I  will  tell  you  all  I 
know." 

"  Concerning  my  man  ?  " 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure,  for  Martial  is  a  good  fellow,  though 
somewhat  thoughtless ;  and  it  would  be  a  sore  pity 
should  any  mischance  befall  him  through  that  old 
wretch  of  a  mother  or  his  rascally  brother ! " 

"  But  what  is  going  on  ?  What  have  his  mother  or 
brother  done  ?  And  where  is  he,  eh  ?  Speak,  I  tell 
you!  Speak!" 

277 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Well,  well,  have  a  little  patience  !  And,  I  say,  do  just 
let  my  blouse  alone  !  Come,  take  your  hands  off,  there's 
a  good  girl ;  if  you  keep  interrupting  me,  and  tear  my 
clothes  in  this  way,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  finish 
my  story,  and  you  will  know  nothing  at  last." 

"  Oh,  how  you  try  my  patience !  "  exclaimed  La  Louve, 
stamping  her  foot  with  intense  passion. 

"  And  you  promise  never  to  repeat  a  word  of  what  I 
am  about  to  tell  you  ? " 

"  No,  no,  I  never  will !  " 

"  Upon  your  word  of  honour  ?  " 

"  Father  Fe*rot,  you  will  drive  me  mad !  " 

"  Oh,  what  a  hot-headed  girl  it  is  !  Well,  now,  then, 
this  is  what  I  have  got  to  say ;  but,  first  and  foremost,  I 
must  tell  you  that  Martial  is  more  than  ever  at  variance 
with  his  family  ;  and,  if  he  were  to  get  some  foul  play  at 
their  hands,  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised ;  and  that 
makes  me  the  more  sorry  my  boat  is  not  at  hand  to  help 
you  across  the  water,  for,  if  you  reckon  upon  either 
Nicholas  or  Calabash  taking  you  over  to  the  isle,  why, 
you'll  just  find  yourself  disappointed,  that's  all." 

"  I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do ;  but  what  did  my 
man's  mother  tell  you  ?  He  was  in  the  isle,  then,  when 
he  fell  ill,  was  he  not  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  put  me  out  so  with  your  questions ;  let 
me  tell  my  story  my  own  way.  This  morning  I  says  to 
the  widow,  '  Why,'  says  I, '  I  have  seen  nothing  of  Mar- 
tial these  last  two  or  three  days.  I  mark  his  boat  is 
still  moored,  —  he  don't  seem  to  use  it  as  usual ;  I  sup- 
pose he's  gone  away  a  bit  ?  Maybe  he's  in  Paris  upon 
his  business  ? '  Upon  which  the  widow  gave  me,  oh, 
such  a  devil's  look !  So  says  she,  1  He's  bad  a-bed  in  the 
isle,  and  we  don't  look  for  him  to  get  better ! '  '  Oh, 
oh  ! '  says  I  to  myself,  4  that's  it,  is  it  ?  It's  three  days 
since  — '  Holla !  stop,  I  say !  "  cried  old  F6rot,  inter- 
rupting himself ;  "  where  the  deuce  are  you  going  ? 
What  is  the  girl  after  now  ? " 

278 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


Believing  the  life  of  Martial  in  danger  from  the 
inhabitants  of  the  isle,  and  unable  longer  to  endure 
the  twaddle  of  the  old  fisherman,  La  Louve  rushed,  half 
frantic  with  rage  and  fear,  towards  the  banks  of  the 
Seine.  Some  topographical  descriptions  will  be  requisite 
for  the  perfect  understanding  of  the  ensuing  scene. 

The  Isle  du  Ravageur  was  nearer  to  the  left  bank  of 
the  river  than  it  was  to  the  right,  from  which  Fleur-de- 
Marie  and  Madame  Seraphin  had  embarked.  La  Louve 
stood  on  the  left  bank.  Without  being  extremely  high, 
the  surface  of  the  isle  completely  prevented  those  on  one 
side  the  river  from  seeing  what  was  passing  on  the  oppo- 
site bank ;  thus  La  Louve  had  been  unable  to  witness 
the  embarkation  of  La  Goualeuse,  while  the  Martial 
family  had  been  equally  prevented  from  seeing  La 
Louve,  who,  at  that  very  instant,  was  rushing  in  wild 
desperation  along  the  banks  of  the  other  side  of  the 
river. 

Let  us  also  recall  to  the  reader,  that  the  country-house 
belonging  to  Doctor  Griffon,  and  temporarily  occupied  by 
the  Count  Saint-Remy  was  midway  between  the  land 
and  that  part  of  the  shore  where  La  Louve  arrived  half 
wild  with  apprehension  and  impatience.  Unconsciously 
she  rushed  past  two  individuals,  who,  struck  with 
her  excited  manner  and  haggard  looks,  turned  back  to 
watch  her  proceedings.  These  two  personages  were  the 
Count  Saint-Remy  and  Doctor  Griffon. 

The  first  impulse  of  La  Louve,  upon  learning  the 
danger  which  threatened  her  lover,  was  to  hurry 
towards  the  spot  from  whence  the  peril  proceeded ; 
but,  as  she  reached  the  water's  edge,  she  became  pain- 
fully sensible  of  the  difficulties  that  stood  in  the  way  of 
her  reaching  the  opposite  land.  As  the  old  fisherman 
had  assured  her,  she  well  knew  the  folly  of  expecting 
any  strangers  to  pass  by,  and  none  of  the  Martial  family 
would  take  the  trouble  of  rowing  over  to  fetch  her  to 
the  isle. 

279 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Heated  and  breathless,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  eager 
excitement,  she  stopped  opposite  that  point  of  the  isle 
which,  taking  a  sudden  bend  in  this  direction,  was  the 
nearest  approach  from  the  shore.  Through  the  leafless 
branches  of  the  willows  and  poplars,  La  Louve  could  see 
the  roof  of  the  very  house  where  Martial  perhaps  lay 
dying. 

At  this  distracting  idea  La  Louve  uttered  a  wild  cry 
of  desperation,  then,  snatching  off  her  shawl  and  cap, 
she  slipped  out  of  her  gown ;  and,  undressed  as  she  was 
to  her  petticoat,  she  threw  herself  intrepidly  into  the 
river,  waded  until  she  got  out  of  her  depth,  and  then, 
fearlessly  striking  out,  she  swam  determinedly  towards 
the  isle,  affording  a  strange  spectacle  of  wild  and  des- 
perate energy.  At  each  fresh  impulsion  of  the  arms 
the  long,  thick  hair  of  La  Louve,  unfastened  by  the  vio- 
lent exercise  she  was  using,  shook  and  waved  about  her 
head  like  the  rich  mane  of  a  war-horse.  But  for  the 
fixedness  of  her  gaze,  constantly  riveted  on  the  house 
which  contained  Martial,  and  the  contraction  of  her  fea- 
tures, drawn  together  by  almost  the  convulsive  agonies  of 
fear  and  dreadful  anticipation  of  arriving  too  late,  the 
poacher's  mistress  might  have  been  supposed  to  have 
been  merely  enjoying  the  cool  refreshment  of  the  water 
for  her  own  sport  and  diversion,  so  boldly  and  freely  did 
she  swim. 

Tattooed  in  remembrance  of  her  lover,  her  white  but 
sinewy  arms,  strong  as  those  of  a  man,  divided  the 
waters  with  a  stroke  which  sent  the  sparkling  element 
in  rushing  streams  of  liquid  pearls  over  her  broad  shoul- 
ders and  strong,  expansive  chest,  resembling  a  block  of 
half-submerged  marble.  All  at  once,  from  the  other 
side  of  the  isle,  rose  a  cry  of  distress,  —  a  cry  of  agony 
at  once  fearful  and  despairing.  La  Louve  started,  and 
suddenly  stopped  in  her  rapid  course ;  then  supporting 
herself  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  she  pushed  back 
her  thick,  dripping  hair,  and  listened.  Again  the  cry 
280 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


was  repeated,  but  more  feebly,  supplicatory,  convulsive, 
and  expiring ;  and  then  the  most  profound  silence  reigned 
around. 

"'Tis  Martial  —  'tis  his  cry!  He  calls  me  to  his 
aid ! "  exclaimed  La  Louve,  swimming  with  renewed 
vigour,  for,  in  her  excited  state  of  mind,  the  voice  which 
had  rent  the  air,  and  sent  a  pang  through  her  whole 
frame,  seemed  to  her  to  be  that  of  her  lover. 

The  count  and  the  doctor,  whom  La  Louve  had  rushed 
so  quickly  by,  were  quite  unable  to  overtake  her  in  time 
to  prevent  her  daring  attempt ;  but  both  arrived  imme- 
diately opposite  the  isle  at  the  moment  when  those 
frightful  cries  were  heard.  Both  stopped,  as  perfectly 
shocked  and  startled  as  La  Louve  had  been.  Observing 
the  desperate  energy  with  which  she  battled  with  the 
water,  they  exclaimed  : 

"  The  unfortunate  creature  means  to  drown  herself  !  " 

But  their  fears  were  vain.  Martial's  mistress  swam 
like  an  otter,  and,  with  a  few  more  vigorous  strokes,  the 
intrepid  creature  had  reached  the  land.  She  gained  her 
feet,  and,  to  assist  her  in  climbing  up  the  bank,  she  took 
hold  of  one  of  the  stakes  used  as  a  sort  of  protecting 
stockade  at  the  extremity  of  the  isle,  when  at  that  in- 
stant, as  partially  in  the  water  and  holding  on  by  one 
hand,  she  saw  drifting  along  the  form  of  a  young  female, 
dressed  after  the  fashion  of  the  country  girls  who  come 
to  Paris  with  their  wares.  The  body  floated  slowly  on 
with  the  current,  which  drove  it  against  the  piles,  while 
the  garments  served  to  render  it  buoyant.  To  cling  to 
one  of  the  strongest  stakes,  and  with  the  hand  left  free 
to  snatch  at  the  clothes  of  the  female  as  it  was  passing, 
was  the  instantaneous  impulse  of  La  Louve,  —  an  im- 
pulse executed  as  rapidly  as  conceived.  In  her  extreme 
eagerness,  however,  she  drew  the  unfortunate  being  she 
sought  to  save  so  suddenly  and  violently  towards  herself 
and  within  the  small  enclosure  formed  by  the  piles,  that 
the  body  sunk  completely  under  water,  though  here  it 
281 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


was  shallow  enough  to  walk  to  land.  Gifted  with  skill 
and  strength  far  from  common,  La  Louve  raised  La 
Goualeuse  (for  she  it  was,  although  not  as  yet  recognised 
by  her  late  friend),  took  her  up  in  her  powerful  arms  as 
though  she  had  been  a  child,  and  laid  her  on  the  grassy 
banks  of  the  isle. 

"  Courage  !  Courage  !  "  shouted  M.  de  Saint-Remy, 
from  the  opposite  side,  having,  as  well  as  Doctor  Grif- 
fon, witnessed  this  bold  deliverance.  "  We  will  make 
all  haste  to  cross  the  bridge  of  AsniSres,  and  bring  a 
boat  to  your  assistance." 

After  thus  speaking,  both  the  count  and  his  com- 
panion proceeded  as  quickly  as  they  were  able  in  the 
direction  of  the  bridge ;  but  La  Louve  heard  not  the 
words  addressed  to  her. 

Let  us  again  repeat,  that,  from  the  right  bank  of  the 
Seine,  on  which  Nicholas,  Calabash,  and  their  mother 
assembled  after  the  commission  of  their  atrocious  crime, 
it  was  impossible,  owing  to  its  steepness,  to  observe  what 
was  passing  on  the  opposite  shore.  Fleur-de-Marie, 
abruptly  drawn  by  La  Louve  within  the  piles,  having 
first  sunk  completely  from  the  eyes  of  her  murderers, 
was  thus  in  safety  from  any  further  pursuit  on  their 
part,  they  believing  that  she  had  effectually  perished. 

A  few  instants  after,  the  current,  as  it  swept  by,  car- 
ried with  it  a  second  body,  floating  near  to  the  surface 
of  the  water;  but  La  Louve  perceived  it  not.  It  was 
the  corpse  of  Madame  Seraphin,  the  notary's  femme  de 
charge.    She,  however,  was  perfectly  dead. 

It  was  as  much  the  interest  of  Nicholas  and  Calabash 
as  it  was  of  Jacques  Ferrand  to  remove  so  formidable  a 
witness  as  well  as  sharer  of  their  crime ;  seizing  the 
opportunity,  therefore,  when  the  boat  sunk  with  Fleur- 
de-Marie,  to  spring  into  that  rowed  by  his  sister,  and  in 
which  was  Madame  Seraphin,  he  contrived  to  give  the 
small  vessel  so  great  a  shock  as  almost  threw  the  femme 
de  charge  into  the  water,  and,  while  struggling  to  recover 
282 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


herself,  he  managed  to  thrust  her  overboard,  and  then 
to  finish  her  with  his  boat-hook. 

Breathless  and  exhausted,  La  Louve,  kneeling  on  the 
grass  beside  Fleur-de-Marie,  tried  to  recover  her  strength, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  make  out  the  features  of  her  she 
had  saved  from  certain  death.  Who  can  describe  her 
surprise,  her  utter  astonishment,  as  she  recognised 
her  late  prison  companion,  —  she  who  had  exercised  so 
beneficial  an  influence  on  her  mind,  and  produced  so  com- 
plete a  change  in  her  conduct  and  ideas  ?  In  the  first 
bewilderment  of  her  feelings  even  Martial  was  forgotten. 

"  La  Goualeuse !  "  exclaimed  she,  as,  with  head  bent 
down,  her  hair  dishevelled,  her  garments  streaming  with 
wet,  she,  kneeling,  contemplated  the  unhappy  girl 
stretched  almost  dying  before  her  on  the  grass. 

Pale,  motionless,  her  half  closed  eyes  vacant  and  sense- 
less, her  beautiful  hair  glued  to  her  pallid  brows,  her  lips 
blue  and  livid,  her  small,  delicate  hands  stiff  and  cold, 
La  Goualeuse  might  well  have  passed  for  dead  to  any  but 
the  watchful  eye  of  affection. 

"  La  Goualeuse  !  "  again  cried  La  Louve.  "  What  a 
singular  chance  that  I  should  have  come  hither  to  relate 
to  my  man  all  the  good  and  harm  she  has  done  me  with 
her  words  and  promises,  as  well  as  the  resolution  I  have 
taken,  and  to  find  the  poor  thing  thus  to  give  me  the 
meeting !  Poor  girl !  She  is  cold  and  dead.  But,  no, 
no  !  "  exclaimed  La  Louve,  stooping  still  more  closely 
over  Fleur-de-Marie,  and,  as  she  did  so,  finding  a  faint 
—  indeed,  almost  imperceptible  —  breath  escape  her  lips ; 
"  no,  she  lives !  Merciful  Father,  she  breathes  !  And 
'tis  I  have  snatched  her  from  death !  I,  who  never  yet 
saved  any  one !  Oh,  how  happy  the  thought  makes  me ! 
My  heart  glows  with  a  new  delight.  How  thankful  I 
feel  that  none  but  I  saved  her  !  Ha !  but  my  man,  — 
I  must  save  him  also.  Perhaps  he  is  even  now  in  his 
death-throes  —  his  mother  and  brother  are  even  wretches 
283 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


enough  to  murder  him  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  cannot 
leave  this  poor  creature  here,  —  I  will  carry  her  to  the 
widow's  house.  She  must  and  she  shall  succour  the  poor 
Goualeuse  and  let  me  see  Martial,  or  I  will  smash  every- 
thing in  my  way.  No  mother,  brother,  or  sister  shall 
hinder  me  from  going  wherever  my  man  is !  " 

And,  springing  up  as  she  spoke,  La  Louve  raised 
Fleur-de-Marie  in  her  strong  arms.  Charged  with  this 
slender  burthen,  she  hurried  towards  the  house,  never  for 
a  moment  doubting  that,  spite  of  their  hard  and  wicked 
natures,  the  widow  and  her  daughter  would  bestow  on 
Fleur-de-Marie  every  requisite  care. 

When  Martial's  mistress  had  reached  that  point  of  the 
isle  from  which  both  sides  of  the  Seine  were  distinguish- 
able, Nicholas,  his  mother,  and  Calabash  had  quitted  the 
place,  certain  of  the  accomplishment  of  their  double 
crime  ;  they  then  repaired,  in  all  haste,  to  the  house  of 
Bras-Rouge. 

At  this  moment  a  man  who,  hidden  in  one  of  the  re- 
cesses of  the  river  concealed  by  the  lime-kiln,  had,  with- 
out being  seen  himself,  witnessed  the  whole  progress  of 
this  horrible  scene,  also  disappeared ;  believing,  as  well 
as  the  guilty  perpetrators,  that  the  fell  deed  had  been 
fully  achieved.    This  man  was  Jacques  Ferrand. 

One  of  Nicholas's  boats  was  rocking  to  and  fro,  moored 
to  a  stake  on  the  river's  bank,  just  by  where  Madame 
SSraphin  and  La  Goualeuse  had  embarked. 

Scarcely  had  Jacques  Ferrand  quitted  the  lime-kiln  to 
return  to  Paris  than  M.  de  Saint-Remy  and  Doctor  Griffon 
hastily  crossed  the  bridge  of  Asnieres,  for  the  purpose  of 
reaching  the  isle ;  which  they  contemplated  doing  by 
means  of  Nicholas's  boat,  which  they  had  discerned  from 
afar. 

To  the  extreme  astonishment  of  La  Louve,  when  she 
arrived  at  the  house  in  the  Isle  du  Ravageur,  she  found 
the  door  shut  and  fastened.    Placing  the  still  inanimate 
form  of  Fleur-de-Marie  beneath  the  porch,  she  more 
284 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


closely  examined  the  dwelling.  The  window  of  Martial's 
chamber  was  well  known  to  her ;  what  was  her  surprise 
to  find  the  shutters  belonging  to  it  closed,  and  sheets  of 
tin  nailed  over  them,  strongly  secured  from  without  by 
two  bars  of  iron ! 

Suspecting  a  part  of  the  cause  of  this,  La  Louve,  in  a 
loud,  hoarse  voice  of  mingled  fury  and  deep  tenderness, 
screamed  out  as  loudly  as  she  could : 

"  Martial !    My  man ! " 

No  answer  was  returned. 

Terrified  at  this  silence,  La  Louve  began  pacing  round 
and  round  the  house  like  a  wild  beast  who  scents  the 
spot  whither  her  mate  has  been  entrapped,  and  with  deep 
roars  and  savage  growls  demands  admittance  to  him. 

Still  pursuing  her  agitated  search,  La  Louve  kept 
shouting  from  time  to  time,  "  My  man !  Are  you  there, 
my  man  ? "  And  in  her  desperate  fury  she  shook  and 
rattled  the  bars  of  the  kitchen  windows,  beat  against 
the  walls,  and  knocked  long  and  loudly  at  the  door.  All 
at  once  a  dull,  indistinct  noise  was  heard  from  with- 
inside  the  house.  Eagerly  and  attentively  La  Louve 
listened ;  the  noise,  however,  ceased. 

"  My  man  heard  me !  I  must  and  will  get  in  some- 
how, if  I  gnaw  the  door  away  with  my  teeth." 

And  again  she  reiterated  her  frantic  cries  and  adjura- 
tions to  Martial.  Several  faint  blows  struck  inside  the 
closed  shutters  of  Martial's  chamber  replied  to  the  yells 
and  screams  of  La  Louve. 

"  He  is  there !  "  cried  she,  suddenly  stopping  beneath 
the  window  of  her  lover.  "  He  is  there !  I  am  sure  of 
it ;  and  if  all  other  means  fail  I  will  strip  off  that  tin 
with  my  nails,  but  I  will  wrench  those  shutters  open ! " 

So  saying,  she  glanced  frantically  around  in  search  of 
something  to  aid  her  efforts  to  free  her  lover,  when  her 
eye  caught  sight  of  a  ladder  partly  hanging  against  one 
of  the  outside  shutters  of  the  sitting-room.  Hastily  pull- 
ing the  shutter,  the  more  quickly  to  disengage  the  ladder, 
285 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


the  key  of  the  outer  door,  left  by  the  widow  on  the  sill 
of  the  window,  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Oh,  if  this  be  only  the  right  key !  "  cried  La  Louve, 
trying  it  in  the  lock  of  the  entrance  door ;  "  I  can  go 
straight  up  stairs  to  his  chamber.  Oh,  it  turns !  It 
opens !  "  exclaimed  La  Louve,  with  delight ;  "  and  my 
man  is  saved  !  " 

Once  in  the  kitchen  she  was  struck  by  the  cries  of  the 
two  children,  who,  shut  up  in  the  cellar,  and  hearing  an 
unusual  noise,  called  loudly  for  help.  The  widow,  per- 
suaded that  no  person  would  visit  the  isle  or  her  dwell- 
ing, had  contented  herself  with  double-locking  the  door 
upon  Francois  and  Amandine,  leaving  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

Released  by  La  Louve,  the  two  children  hurried  from 
the  cellar  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Oh,  La  Louve !  "  exclaimed  Francois,  "  save  our  dear 
Brother  Martial ;  they  want  him  to  die !  For  two  days 
he  has  been  shut  up  in  his  room !  " 

"  They  have  not  wounded  him,  have  they  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  I  think  not !  " 

"  I  have  arrived  just  in  time,  it  seems,"  cried  La 
Louve,  rushing  towards  the  staircase,  and  hastily  mount- 
ing the  stairs.  Then,  suddenly  stopping,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Ah,  but  La  Goualeuse  !  I  quite  forgot  her.  Amandine, 
my  child,  light  a  fire  directly  ;  and  then  do  you  and  your 
brother  fetch  a  poor,  half-drowned  girl  you  will  find  lying 
outside  the  door  under  the  porch,  and  place  her  before 
the  fire.  She  would  have  been  quite  dead,  if  I  had  not 
saved  her.  Francois,  quick  !  Bring  me  a  crowbar,  a 
hatchet,  an  axe,  anything,  that  I  may  break  in  the  door 
that  confines  my  man  !  " 

"  There  is  the  cleaver  we  split  wood  with,  but  it  is  too 
heavy  for  you,"  said  the  lad,  dragging  forward  an  enor- 
mous chopper. 

"  Too  heavy !  I  don't  even  feel  it ! "  cried  La  Louve, 
swinging  the  ponderous  weapon,  which,  at  another  time, 
286 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


she  would  have  had  much  difficulty  in  lifting,  as  though 
it  had  been  a  feather. 

Then,  proceeding  with  hurried  steps  up-stairs,  she 
called  out  to  the  children: 

"  Go  and  fetch  the  young  girl  I  told  you  of,  and  place 
her  by  the  fire." 

And,  with  two  bounds,  La  Louve  reached  the  corri- 
dor, at  the  end  of  which  was  situated  the  apartment  of 
Martial. 

"  Courage  !  Courage,  my  man !  Your  Louve  is  here !" 
cried  she,  and,  lifting  the  cleaver  with  both  hands,  she 
dashed  it  furiously  against  the  door. 

"  It  is  fastened  on  the  outside,"  moaned  Martial,  in  a 
feeble  voice ;  "  draw  out  the  nails,  —  you  cannot  open  it 
otherwise."  \ 

Throwing  herself  upon  her  knees  in  the  passage,  by 
the  help  of  the  edge  of  the  cleaver,  her  nails,  which  she 
almost  tore  bleeding  from  their  roots,  and  her  fingers, 
which  were  lacerated  and  torn,  La  Louve  contrived  to 
extract  the  huge  nails  which  fastened  the  door  all  around. 
At  length  her  heroic  exertions  were  crowned  with  suc- 
cess, —  the  door  yielded  to  her  efforts,  and  Martial,  pale, 
bleeding,  and  almost  exhausted,  fell  into  the  arms  of  his 
mistress. 

"  At  last  —  I  have  you  —  I  hold  you  —  I  press  you  to 
my  heart ! "  exclaimed  La  Louve,  as  she  received  and 
tenderly  pressed  Martial  in  her  arms,  with  a  joy  of 
possession  that  partook  almost  of  savage  energy.  She 
supported,  or,  rather,  carried  him  to  a  bench  placed  in 
the  corridor.  For  several  minutes  Martial  remained 
weak  and  haggard,  endeavouring  to  recover  from  the 
violent  surprise  which  had  proved  nearly  too  much  for 
his  exhausted  strength.  La  Louve  had  come  to  the  suc- 
cour of  her  lover  at  the  very  instant  when,  worn-out  and 
despairing,  he  felt  himself  dying, — less  from  want  of 
food  than  air,  which  it  was  impossible  to  obtain  in  so 
small  an  apartment,  unprovided  with  a  chimney  or  any 
287 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


other  outlet,  and  hermetically  closed,  thanks  to  the 
fiendish  contrivance  of  Calabash,  who  had  stopped  even 
the  most  trifling  crevices  in  the  door  and  window  with 
pieces  of  old  rag. 

Trembling  with  joy  and  apprehension,  her  eyes  stream- 
ing with  tears,  La  Louve,  kneeling  beside  Martial,  watched 
his  slightest  movements,  and  intently  gazed  on  his  fea- 
tures. The  unfortunate  youth  seemed  gradually  to 
recover  as  his  lungs  inhaled  a  freer  and  more  healthful 
atmosphere.  After  a  few  convulsive  shudderings  he 
raised  his  languid  head,  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and,  open- 
ing his  eyes,  looked  eagerly  around  him. 

"  Martial !  'Tis  I !  —  your  Louve !  How  are  you 
now?" 

"  Better !  "  replied  he,  in  a  feeble  voice. 
"  Thank  God !    Will  you  have  a  little  water  or  some 
vinegar  ? " 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Martial,  speaking  more  naturally ; 
"  air,  air !  Oh,  I  want  only  air ! " 

At  the  risk  of  gashing  the  backs  of  her  hands,  La 
Louve  drove  them  through  the  four  panes  of  a  window 
she  could  not  have  opened  without  first  removing  a 
large  and  heavy  table. 

"  Now  I  breathe  !  I  breathe  freely !  And  my  head 
seems  quite  relieved  !  "  said  Martial,  entirely  recovering 
his  senses  and  voice. 

Then,  as  if  recalling  for  the  first  time  the  service  his 
mistress  had  rendered  him,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of 
ineffable  gratitude : 

"  But  for  you,  my  brave  Louve,  I  should  soon  have 
been  dead  ! " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  thinking  of  that !  But  tell  me,  how 
do  you  find  yourself  now  ?  " 

"  Better  —  much  better ! " 

"  You  are  hungry,  I  doubt  not  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  feel  myself  too  weak  for  that.  What  I  have 
suffered  most  cruelly  from  has  been  want  of  air.  At 
288 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


last  I  felt  suffocating,  strangling,  choking.    Oh,  it  was 
dreadful ! " 
"  But  now  ? " 

"  I  live  again.  I  come  forth  from  the  very  tomb 
itself ;  and  that,  too,  thanks  to  you ! " 

"And  these  cuts  upon  your  poor  bleeding  hands! 
For  God's  sake,  what  have  they  done  to  you  ? " 

« Nicholas  and  Calabash,  not  daring  to  attack  me 
openly  a  second  time,  fastened  me  up  in  my  chamber 
to  allow  me  to  perish  of  hunger  in  it.  I  tried  to  pre- 
vent their  nailing  up  my  shutters,  and  my  sister  chopped 
my  fingers  with  a  hatchet." 

"  The  monsters !  They  wished  to  make  it  appear  that 
you  had  died  of  sickness.  Your  mother  had  spread  the 
report  of  your  being  in  a  hopeless  state.  Your  mother, 
my  man,  —  your  own  mother  !  " 

"  Hold  !  "  cried  Martial,  with  bitterness ;  "  mention 
her  not."  Then  for  the  first  time  remarking  the  wet 
garments  and  singular  state  of  La  Louve's  attire,  he 
added,  "  But  what  has  happened  to  you  ?  Your  hair  is 
dripping  wet ;  you  have  only  your  underclothes  on ;  and 
they  are  drenched  through." 

"  No  matter,  no  matter  what  has  happened  to  me, 
since  you  are  saved.    Oh,  yes,  —  saved  ! " 

"  But  explain  to  me  how  you  became  thus  wet 
through." 

"  I  knew  you  were  in  danger,  and  finding  no  boat  —  " 
"  You  swam  to  my  rescue  ?  " 

"  I  did.  But  your  hands  ?  Give  them  to  me  that  I 
may  heal  them  with  my  kisses  !  You  are  in  pain,  I  fear  ? 
Oh,  the  monsters  !    And  I  not  here  to  help  you  ! " 

"  Oh,  my  brave  Louve  !  "  exclaimed  Martial,  enthusi- 
astically ;  "  bravest  and  best  of  all  brave  creatures !  " 

"  Did  not  your  hand  trace  on  my  arm  '  Death  to  the 
cowardly?'  See!"  cried  La  Louve,  showing  her  tat- 
tooed arm,  on  which  these  very  words  were  indelibly 
engraved. 

289 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Yes,  you  are  bold  and  intrepid ;  but  the  cold  has 
seized  you,  —  you  tremble  !  " 
"  Indeed,  it  is  not  with  cold." 

"Never  mind,  —  go  in  there.    You  will  find  Cala- 
bash's cloak ;  wrap  yourself  well  in  it." 
«  But  —  " 
"  I  insist ! " 

In  an  instant  La  Louve,  who  had  quickly  flown  at 
her  lover's  second  command,  returned  wrapped  in  a 
plaid  mantle. 

"  To  think  you  ran  the  risk  of  drowning  yourself,  — 
and  all  for  me !  "  resumed  Martial,  gazing  on  her  with 
enthusiastic  delight. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  altogether  for  you.  A  poor  girl  was 
nearly  perishing  in  the  river,  and  I  saved  her  as  I 
landed." 

"  Saved  her  also.    And  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Below  with  the  children,  who  are  taking  care  of  her." 

"  And  who  is  she  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  you  can  scarcely  credit  what  a  singular 
and  lucky  chance  brought  me  to  her  rescue !  She  was 
one  of  my  companions  at  St.  Lazare,  —  a  most  extraordi- 
nary sort  of  girl.    Oh,  you  don't  half  know  —  " 

"  How  so  ? " 

"  Only  conceive  my  both  hating  and  loving  her ; 
for  she  had  introduced  happiness  and  death  into  my 
heart  and  thoughts." 

"Who?    This  girl?" 

"  Yes ;  and  all  on  your  account." 

"  On  mine  ?  " 

"  Hark  ye,  Martial !  "  Then  interrupting  her  pro- 
posed speech,  La  Louve  continued,  "  No,  no ;  I  never, 
never  can  —  " 

«  What?" 

"  I  had  a  request  to  make  to  you,  and  for  that  pur- 
pose I  came  hither ;  because  when  I  quitted  Paris  I 
knew  nothing  of  your  danger." 

290 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


"  Then  speak,  —  pray  do  !  " 
"  I  dare  not." 

"  Dare  not,  —  after  all  you  have  done  for  me  ?  " 

"  No  ;  for  then  it  would  appear  as  though  I  claimed 
a  right  to  be  rewarded." 

"  A  right  to  be  rewarded  ?  And  have  you  not  already 
earned  that  right  ?  Do  I  not  already  owe  you  much  ? 
And  did  you  not  tend  my  sick  bed  with  unfailing  watch- 
fulness, both  night  and  day  during  my  illness  of  the 
past  year  ?  " 

"  Are  you  not 4  my  man,  —  my  own  dear  man  ?  '  " 
"And  for  the  reason  that  I  am  and  ever  shall  be 

'  your  man,'  are  you  not  bound  to  speak  openly  and 

candidly  to  me  ?  " 
"  For  ever,  Martial  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  ever ;  as  true  as  my  name  is  Martial.  I 
shall  never  care  for  any  other  woman  in  the  world  but 
you,  my  brave  Louve.  Never  mind  what  you  may  have 
been,  or  what  you  may  have  done;  that  is  nobody's 
affair  but  mine.  I  love  you,  and  you  love  me ;  and, 
moreover,  I  owe  you  my  life.  But  somehow,  do  you 
know,  since  you  have  been  in  prison  I  have  not  been  like 
the  same  person.  All  sorts  of  fresh  thoughts  have  come 
into  my  mind.  I  have  thought  it  well  over,  and  I  have 
resolved  that  you  shall  no  more  be  what  you  have  been." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  I  will  never  more  quit  you  ;  neither  will  I  part 
from  Francois  and  Amandine." 

"  Your  young  sister  and  brother  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  from  this  day  forward  I  must  be  as  a  second 
father  to  these  poor  children.  Don't  you  see,  by  impos- 
ing on  myself  fresh  duties,  I  am  compelled  to  alter  and 
amend  what  is  amiss  in  my  way  of  conducting  myself  ? 
But  I  consider  it  my  positive  task  to  take  charge  of 
these  young  things,  or  they  will  be  made  artful  thieves. 
And  the  only  way  to  save  them  is  to  take  them  from 
here." 

291 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


«  Where  to  ?  " 

"  That  I  know  not ;  but  certainly  far  from  Paris." 
« And  me?" 

"  You  ?    Why,  of  course,  you  go  with  me  !  " 

"  With  you  ? "  exclaimed  La  Louve,  with  joyful  sur- 
prise, —  she  could  not  credit  the  reality  of  such  happi- 
ness. "  And  shall  I  never  again  be  parted  from 
you?" 

"  No,  my  brave  girl  —  never !  You  will  help  me  to 
bring  up  my  little  sister  and  young  brother.  I  know  your 
heart.  When  I  say  to  you,  'I  greatly  wish  my  poor 
little  Amandine  to  grow  up  a  virtuous  and  industrious 
woman.  Just  talk  to  her  about  it,  and  show  her  what 
to  do,'  I  am  quite  sure  and  certain  that  you  will  be  to 
her  all  the  best  mother  could  be  to  her  own  child." 

"  Oh,  thanks,  Martial,  —  thanks,  thanks  !  " 

"  We  shall  live  like  honest  workpeople.  Never  fear 
but  we  shall  find  work ;  for  we  will  toil  like  slaves  to 
content  our  employers ;  but,  at  least,  these  children  will 
not  be  depraved  and  degraded  beings  like  their  parents. 
I  shall  not  continually  hear  myself  taunted  with  my 
father  and  brother's  disgraceful  end,  neither  shall  I  go 
through  streets  where  you  are  known.  But  what  is  the 
matter,  —  what  ails  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Martial,  I  feel  as  though  I  should  go  mad." 

"Mad!— for  what?" 

"  For  joy." 

"  And  why  should  you  go  mad  with  joy  ?  " 
"  Because  —  because,  —  it  is  too  much  —  " 
«  What?" 

"  I  mean  that  what  you  propose  is  too  great  happiness 
for  one  like  me  to  hope  for.  Oh,  indeed,  indeed,  it  is 
more  than  I  can  bear !  But  who  knows  ?  Perhaps  sav- 
ing La  Goualeuse  has  brought  me  good  luck,  —  that's 
it,  I  am  sure  and  certain." 

"  Still,  I  ask  you,  what  is  the  matter,  and  why  are  you 
thus  agitated  ?  "  exclaimed  Martial. 

292 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


"  Oh,  Martial,  Martial,  the  very  thing  you  have  been 
proposing  —  " 
«  Well?" 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you." 
"To  quit  Paris?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  she,  in  a  hurried  tone ;  "  and  to  try 
your  consent  to  accompany  you  to  the  forests,  where  we 
should  have  a  nice,  neat  little  house,  and  children  whom 
I  should  love  as  La  Louve  would  the  children  of  her  man 
—  or,  if  you  would  permit  me,"  continued  La  Louve,  in  a 
faltering  voice,  "  instead  of  calling  you  '  my  man,'  to  say 
<  my  husband  ? '  For,"  added  she,  confusedly  and  rapidly, 
"  for  without  that  change,  we  should  not  obtain  the  place." 

Martial,  in  his  turn,  regarded  La  Louve  with  deep 
astonishment,  unable  to  comprehend  her  meaning. 

"  What  place  are  you  speaking  of  ? "  said  he,  at 
length. 

"  Of  that  of  gamekeeper." 

« That  I  should  have?" 

«  Yes." 

"  And  who  would  give  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  The  protector  of  the  young  girl  I  saved." 

"  They  do  not  know  me." 

"  But  I  have  told  her  all  about  you,  and  she  will 
recommend  us  to  her  protector." 

"  And  what  have  you  told  her  about  me?" 

"  Oh,  Martial,  can  you  not  guess  ?  Of  what  could  I 
speak  but  of  your  goodness  —  and  my  love  for  you  ?  " 

"  My  excellent  Louve  !  " 

"  And  then,  you  know,  being  in  prison  together  makes 
folks  talk  to  each  other,  and  open  their  hearts  in  the 
way  of  confidence.  Besides  which,  there  was  something 
so  gentle  and  engaging  about  this  young  creature,  that  I 
could  not  help  feeling  drawn  towards  her,  even  in  spite 
of  myself ;  for  I  very  quickly  discovered  she  was  a  very 
different  person  to  such  as  you  and  I  have  been  used  to." 

"  And  who  is  she  ?  " 

293 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  know  not,  neither  can  I  guess ;  but  certainly  I 
never  met  with  any  one  like  her.  Bless  you,  she  can 
read  the  very  thoughts  of  your  heart,  the  same  as  if  she 
were  a  fairy.  I  merely  told  her  of  my  love  for  you,  and 
she  immediately  interested  herself  in  us.  She  made  me 
feel  ashamed  of  my  past  life ;  not  by  saying  harsh  and 
severe  things,  —  you  know  very  well  that  would  not 
have  done  much  good  with  me,  —  but  by  talking  of 
the  pleasures  of  a  life  passed  in  hard  but  peaceful 
labour,  tranquilly  within  the  quiet  shades  of  deep 
forests,  where  you  might  be  occupied  according  to  your 
tastes  and  inclinations ;  only,  instead  of  your  being  a 
poacher,  she  made  you  a  gamekeeper,  and  in  place  of 
my  being  only  your  mistress,  she  pictured  me  as  your 
true  and  lawful  wife.  And  then  we  were  to  have  fine, 
healthy  children  who  ran  joyfully  to  meet  you  when  you 
returned  at  night,  followed  by  your  faithful  dogs,  and 
carrying  your  gun  on  your  shoulder.  Then  we  all  sat 
down  so  gay  and  happy,  to  eat  our  supper  beneath  the 
cool  shade  of  the  large  trees  that  overhung  our  cottage 
door,  while  the  fresh  wind  blew,  and  the  moon  peeped  at 
us  from  amongst  the  thick  branches,  and  the  little  ones 
prattled  and  you  related  to  us  all  you  had  seen  and  done 
during  the  day,  while  wandering  in  the  forests ;  until, 
at  last,  cheerful  and  contented,  we  retired  to  rest,  to  rise 
the  following  day,  and  with  light  hearts  to  recommence 
our  labours.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  was,  but  I  listened 
and  listened  to  these  delightful  pictures  till  I  quite  be- 
lieved in  their  reality.  I  seemed  bound  by  a  spell  when 
she  spoke  of  happiness  like  this,  though  I  tried  ever  so 
much  against  it.  I  always  found  it  impossible  to  dis- 
believe that  it  would  surely  come  to  pass.  Oh,  but  you 
have  no  idea  how  beautifully  she  described  it  all !  I 
fancied  I  saw  it  —  you  —  our  children  —  our  forest 
home.  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  but  it  was  ever  before  them, 
although  a  waking  dream." 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Martial,  sighing;  "that  would,  in- 
294 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING. 


deed,  be  a  sweet  and  pleasant  life !  Without  being 
bad  at  heart,  poor  Francois  has  been  quite  enough  in  the 
society  of  Calabash  and  Nicholas  to  make  it  far  better 
he  should  dwell  in  the  solitude  of  woods  and  forests, 
rather  than  be  exposed  to  the  further  contamination  of 
great  towns.  Amandine  would  help  you  in  your  house- 
hold duties,  and  I  should  make  a  capital  gamekeeper, 
from  the  very  fact  of  my  having  been  a  poacher  of  some 
notoriety.  I  should  have  you  for  my  housekeeper  and 
companion,  my  good  Louve ;  and  then,  as  you  know,  we 
should  have  our  children  also.  Bless  their  little  hearts, 
I  doubt  not  our  having  a  fine  flock  about  us  !  And  what 
more  could  we  wish  for  or  desire  ?  When  once  we  got 
used  to  a  forest  life,  it  would  seem  as  though  we  had 
always  lived  there ;  and  fifty  or  a  hundred  years  would 
glide  away  like  a  single  day.  But  you  must  not  talk  to 
me  of  such  happiness ;  it  makes  one  so  full  of  sadness 
and  regrets  that  it  cannot  be  realised.  No,  no,  don't  let 
us  ever  mention  it  again ;  because,  don't  you  see,  La 
Louve,  it  comes  over  one  like  —  I  should  soon  work 
myself  up  to  madness  if  I  allowed  my  thoughts  to  dwell 
on  it." 

"  Ah,  Martial,  I  let  you  go  on  because  I  thought  I  was 
quite  as  bad  myself.  I  said  just  those  very  words  to  La 
Goualeuse." 

«  Did  you,  really  ?  " 

"  I  did,  indeed.  For,  after  listening  to  all  these  tales 
of  enchantment,  I  said  to  her,  '  What  a  pity,  La  Goua- 
leuse, that  these  castles  in  the  air,  as  you  call  them,  are 
not  true  ! '  And  what  do  you  think,  Martial,"  asked  La 
Louve,  her  eyes  flashing  with  joy,  "  what  do  you  think 
she  answered  me  ? " 

« I  don't  know." 

« <  Why,'  said  she,  '  only  let  Martial  marry  you,  and 
give  me  your  promise  to  live  honestly  and  virtuously 
henceforward,  and  directly  I  quit  the  prison  I  will  exert 
myself  to  get  the  place  I  have  been  speaking  of  for  him.'  " 

295 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Get  me  a  gamekeeper's  place  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  declare  to  you,  Martial,  she  said  so." 

"  Oh,  but  as  you  say,  that  can  be  but  a  dream  —  a 
mere  fancy.  If,  indeed,  nothing  were  requisite  for  our 
obtaining  the  place  but  our  being  married,  my  good  girl, 
that  should  be  done  to-morrow,  if  I  had  the  means ; 
though,  from  this  very  day  and  hour,  I  consider  you  as 
my  true  and  lawful  wife." 

«  Oh,  Martial !    I  your  lawful  wife  ? " 

"  The  only  woman  who  shall  ever  bear  that  title. 
And,  for  the  future,  I  wish  you  to  call  me  '  husband ; ' 
for  such  I  am  in  word  and  heart,  as  firmly  and  lastingly 
as  though  we  had  been  before  the  maire." 

"  Oh,  La  Goualeuse  was  right.  A  woman  feels  so 
proud  and  happy  to  say  '  My  husband  ! '  Oh,  Martial, 
you  shall  see  what  a  good,  faithful,  devoted  wife  I  will 
be  to  you ;  how  hard  I  will  work !  Oh,  I  shall  be  so 
delighted  to  labour  for  you  !  " 

"  And  do  you  really  think  there  is  any  chance  of  our 
getting  this  place  ?  " 

"  If  the  poor  dear  Goualeuse  deceives  herself  about  it, 
it  is  that  others  deceive  her ;  for  she  seemed  quite  sure 
of  being  able  to  fulfil  her  promises.  And  besides,  when 
I  was  quitting  the  prison  a  little  while  ago,  the  inspect- 
ress  told  me  that  the  protectors  of  La  Goualeuse,  who 
were  people  of  rank  and  consequence,  had  removed  her 
from  confinement  that  very  day.  Now  that  proved 
her  having  powerful  friends ;  so  that  she  can  keep  her 
word  to  us  if  she  likes." 

"  But,"  cried  Martial,  suddenly  rising,  "  I  don't  know 
what  we  have  been  thinking  of  all  this  time ! " 

"  Thinking  about  —  what  do  you  mean,  Martial  ? " 

"  Why,  the  poor  girl  you  saved  from  drowning  is 
down-stairs  —  perhaps  dying ;  and,  instead  of  rendering 
her  any  assistance,  we  are  attending  to  our  own  affairs 
up-stairs." 

"  Make  yourself  perfectly  easy ;  Fran<jois  and  Aman- 

296 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  MEETING 


dine  are  there  watching  her,  and  they  would  have  come 
to  call  us  had  there  been  any  danger  or  necessity. 
Still  you  are  right ;  let  us  go  to  her.  You  must  see  her 
to  whom  we  shall,  perhaps,  owe  all  our  future  happiness." 

And  Martial,  supported  by  La  Louve,  descended  to  the 
lower  part  of  the  house.  Before  they  have  reached 
the  kitchen,  let  us  in  a  few  words  describe  what  had 
occurred  there  from  the  time  when  Fleur-de-Marie  had 
been  confided  to  the  charge  of  the  two  children. 


297 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


DOCTOB  GRIFFON. 

Francois  and  Amandine  had  contrived  to  convey 
Fleur-de-Marie  near  the  fire,  when  M.  de  Saint-Remy 
and  Doctor  Griffon,  who  had  crossed  the  river  in 
Nicholas's  boat,  entered  the  house.  Whilst  the  chil- 
dren were  making  the  fire  burn  up,  Doctor  Griffon 
bestowed  on  the  young  girl  his  utmost  care. 

"  The  poor  girl  cannot  be  more  than  seventeen  at 
most ! "  exclaimed  the  count,  who  was  looking  on. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  her,  doctor  ? " 

"  Her  pulse  is  scarcely  perceptible ;  but,  strange  to 
say,  the  skin  of  the  face  is  not  livid  in  the  subject,  as  is 
usually  the  case  in  asphyxia  from  submersion,"  replied 
the  doctor,  with  professional  calmness,  and  contemplat- 
ing Fleur-de-Marie  with  a  deeply  meditative  air. 

Doctor  Griffon  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  pallid  and  com- 
pletely bald,  except  two  tufts  of  thin  black  hair,  carefully 
brushed  back  on  the  poll,  and  flattened  on  the  temples. 
His  countenance,  wrinkled  and  furrowed  by  the  fatigues 
of  study,  was  calm,  intelligent,  and  reflective.  Pro- 
foundly learned,  of  great  experience,  and  a  skilful 
practitioner,  first  surgeon  at  a  civil  hospital,  where 
we  shall  again  encounter  him,  Doctor  Griffon  had  but 
one  defect,  that  of  completely  abstracting  himself  from 
the  patient,  and  only  considering  the  disease.  Young  or 
old,  rich  or  poor,  was  no  matter,  —  he  only  thought  of 
medical  fact,  more  or  less  remarkable,  which  the  subject 
presented.  For  him  there  was  nothing  but  subjects. 
298 


DOCTOR  GRIFFON 


"  What  a  lovely  face  !  How  beautiful  she  is  in  spite 
of  this  frightful  paleness!"  said  M.  de  Saint-Remy. 
"  Did  you  ever  see  milder  or  more  expressive  features, 
my  dear  doctor  ?    And  so  young  —  so  young !  " 

"  Age  is  no  consequence,"  said  the  doctor,  abruptly, 
"no  more  than  the  presence  of  water  in  the  lungs, 
which  was  formerly  thought  fatal.  It  was  a  gross 
error,  which  the  admirable  experiments  of  Goodwin 
—  the  famous  Goodwin  —  incontestably  detected  and 
exposed." 

"But  doctor  —  " 

"  But  it  is  a  fact,"  replied  M.  Griffon,  absorbed  by  the 
love  of  his  art.  "  To  detect  the  presence  of  any  foreign 
liquid  in  the  lungs,  Goodwin  plunged  some  cats  and  dogs 
several  times  into  tubs  filled  with  ink  for  some  seconds, 
taking  them  out  alive,  and  then,  after  a  time,  dissected 
the  animals.  Well,  he  was  convinced  from  the  dis- 
section that  the  ink  had  penetrated  the  lungs,  and 
that  the  presence  of  this  liquid  in  the  respiratory 
organs  had  not  caused  the  death  of  the  subject." 

The  count  knew  the  doctor  was  a  worthy  creature  at 
heart,  but  that  his  mad  passion  for  science  made  him 
often  appear  harsh  and  cruel. 

"  Have  you  any  hope  ? "  inquired  M.  de  Saint-Remy, 
impatiently. 

"  The  extremities  of  the  subject  are  very  cold,"  said 
the  doctor ;  "  there  is  but  very  slight  hope." 

"Ah,  poor  child!  To  die  at  that  age  is  indeed 
terrible ! " 

"Pupil  fixed  —  dilated!"  observed  the  doctor,  impas- 
sive, and  pushing  up  the  frigid  eyelid  of  Fleur-de-Marie 
with  his  forefinger. 

"  What  a  singular  man ! "  exclaimed  the  comte,  almost 
with  indignation.  "  One  would  suppose  you  pitiless,  and 
yet  I  have  seen  you  watch  by  my  bedside  for  nights 
together.  Had  I  been  your  brother,  you  could  not  have 
been  more  generously  devoted  to  me." 

299 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


Doctor  Griffon,  still  occupied  in  doing  all  that  was 
requisite  and  possible  for  Fleur-de-Marie,  replied  to  the 
comte  without  looking  at  him,  and  with  imperturbable 
phlegm : 

"Parbleu!  Do  you  think  one  meets  with  an  inter- 
mittent fever  so  wonderfully  complicated  as  that  you 
had!  It  was  wonderful,  my  dear  friend  —  astonishing! 
Stupor,  delirium,  muscular  action  of  the  tendons,  syn- 
copes, —  that  important  fever  combined  the  most  varied 
symptoms.  You  were,  indeed,  affected  by  a  partial  and 
momentary  attack  of  paralysis ;  and,  if  it  had  presented 
nothing  else,  why,  your  attack  was  entitled  to  all  the 
attention  in  my  power.  You  presented  a  magnificent 
study ;  and,  truth  to  say,  my  dear  friend,  what  I  desire 
most  in  the  world  is  to  meet  with  such  another  glorious 
fever.  But  that  is  a  piece  of  good  fortune  that  never 
occurs  twice ! " 

At  this  moment  Martial  descended,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  La  Louve,  who  still  retained  over  her  wet  clothes 
the  plaid  cloak  which  belonged  to  Calabash.  Struck 
with  the  paleness  of  Martial,  and  remarking  his  hands 
covered  with  dried  blood,  the  comte  exclaimed,  "  Who  is 
this  man  ?  " 

"  My  husband !  "  replied  La  Louve,  looking  at  Martial 
with  an  expression  of  happiness  and  noble  pride  impossi- 
ble to  describe. 

"  You  have  a  good  and  intrepid  wife,  sir,"  said  the 
comte  to  him.  "  I  saw  her  save  this  unfortunate  young 
girl  with  singular  courage." 

"  Yes,  sir,  my  wife  is  good  and  intrepid,"  replied 
Martial,  with  emphasis,  and  regarding  La  Louve  with  an 
air  at  once  full  of  love  and  tenderness.  "  Yes,  intrepid  ; 
for  she  has  also  come  in  time  to  save  my  life." 

"  Your  life  ?  "  exclaimed  the  comte. 

"Look  at  his  hands  —  his  poor  hands!"  said  La 
Louve,  wiping  away  the  tears  which  softened  the  wild 
brightness  of  her  eyes. 

300 


DOCTOR  GRIFFON. 


"  Horrible  !  "  cried  the  comte.  "  See,  doctor,  how  his 
hands  are  hacked !  " 

Doctor  Griffon,  turning  his  head  slightly,  and  looking 
over  his  shoulder  at  Martial's  hands,  said  to  him,  "  Open 
and  shut  your  hand." 

Martial  did  so  with  considerable  pain.  The  doctor 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  continued  his  attentions 
to  Fleur-de-Marie,  saying  merely,  and  as  if  with 
regret : 

"  There's  nothing  serious  in  those  cuts,  —  there's  no 
tendon  injured.  In  a  week  the  subject  will  be  able  to 
use  his  hands  again." 

"  Then,  sir,  my  husband  will  not  be  crippled  ?  "  said 
La  Louve,  with  gratitude. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  affirmatively. 

"  And  La  Goualeuse  will  recover  —  won't  she,  sir  ? " 
inquired  La  Louve.  "  Oh,  she  must  live,  for  I  and  my 
husband  owe  her  so  much ! "  Then  turning  towards 
Martial,  "  Poor  dear  girl !  There  she  is,  as  I  told  you,  — 
she  who  will,  perhaps,  be  the  cause  of  our  happiness ; 
for  it  was  she  who  gave  me  the  idea  of  coming  and  say- 
ing to  you  all  I  have  said.  What  a  chance  that  I  should 
save  her  —  and  here,  too !  " 

"  She  is  a  providence,"  said  Martial,  struck  by  the 
beauty  of  La  Goualeuse.  "  What  an  angel's  face  !  Oh, 
she  will  recover,  will  she  not,  doctor  ? " 

"  I  cannot  say,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  But,  in  the  first 
place,  can  she  remain  here  ?  Will  she  have  all  necessary 
attention  ?  " 

"  Here  ? "  cried  La  Louve ;  "  why,  they  commit 
murder  here ! " 

"  Silence  —  silence  !  "  said  Martial. 

The  comte  and  the  doctor  looked  at  La  Louve  with 
surprise. 

"  This  house  in  the  isle  has  a  bad  reputation  here- 
abouts, and  I  am  not  astonished  at  it,"  observed  the 
doctor,  in  a  low  tone,  to  M.  de  Saint-Remy. 

301 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  You  have,  then,  been  the  victim  of  some  violence  ?  " 
observed  the  comte  to  Martial.  "  How  did  you  come  by 
those  wounds  ?  " 

"  They  are  nothing  —  nothing,  sir.  I  had  a  quarrel 
—  a  struggle  ensued,  and  I  was  wounded.  But  this 
young  peasant  girl  cannot  remain  in  this  house,"  he 
added,  with  a  gloomy  air.  "  I  cannot  remain  here  my- 
self —  nor  my  wife,  nor  my  brother,  nor  my  sister,  whom 
you  see.  We  are  going  to  leave  the  isle,  never  to  return 
to  it." 

"  Oh,  how  nice  !  "  exclaimed  the  two  children. 

"  Then  what  are  we  to  do  ?"  said  the  doctor,  looking 
at  Fleur-de-Marie.  "  It  is  impossible  to  think  of  con- 
veying the  subject  to  Paris  in  her  present  state  of 
prostration.  But  then  my  house  is  quite  close  at  hand, 
my  gardener's  wife  and  her  daughter  are  capital  nurses ; 
and  since  this  asphyxia  by  submersion  interests  you, 
my  dear  Saint-Remy,  why,  you  can  watch  over  the 
necessary  attentions,  and  I  will  come  and  see  her  every 
day." 

"And  you  assume  the  harsh  and  pitiless  man," 
exclaimed  the  comte,  "  when,  as  your  proposal  proves, 
you  have  one  of  the  noblest  hearts  in  the  world  !  " 

"  If  the  subject  sinks  under  it,  as  is  possible,  there 
will  be  an  opportunity  for  a  most  interesting  dissection, 
which  will  allow  me  to  confirm  once  again  Goodwin's 
assertions." 

"  How  horridly  you  talk  ! "  cried  the  comte. 

"  For  those  who  know  how  to  read,  the  dead  body  is 
a  book  in  which  they  learn  to  save  the  lives  of  the 
diseased  ! "  replied  Dr.  Griffon,  stoically. 

"At  last,  then,  you  do  good?"  said  M.  de  Saint- 
Remy,  with  bitterness ;  "  and  that  is  important.  What 
consequence  is  the  cause  provided  that  benefit  results  ? 
Poor  child!  The  more  I  look  at  her  the  more  she 
interests  me." 

"  And  well  does  she  deserve  it,  I  can  tell  you,  sir," 
302 


DOCTOR  GRIFFON. 


observed  La  Louve,  with  excitement,  and  approaching 
him. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  inquired  the  comte. 

"  Do  I  know  her,  sir  ?  Why,  it  is  to  her  I  owe  the 
happiness  of  my  life ;  and  I  have  not  done  for  her  half 
what  she  has  done  for  me."  And  La  Louve  looked 
passionately  towards  her  husband,  —  she  no  longer  called 
him  her  man ! 

"  And  who  is  she  ?  "  asked  M.  de  Saint-Remy. 

"An  angel,  sir,  —  all  that  is  good  in  this  world. 
Yes ;  and  although  she  is  dressed  as  a  country  girl, 
there  is  no  merchant's  wife,  no  great  lady,  who  can  dis- 
course as  well  as  she  can,  with  her  sweet  little  voice 
just  like  music.  She  is  a  noble  girl,  I  say,  —  full  of 
courage  and  goodness." 

"  By  what  accident  did  she  fall  into  the  water  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir." 

"  Then  she  is  not  a  peasant  girl  ?  "  asked  the  comte. 
"  A  peasant  girl,  —  look  at  her  small  white  hands, 
sir!" 

"  True,"  observed  M.  de  Saint-Remy ;  "  what  a  strange 
mystery  !    But  her  name  —  her  family  ?  " 

"  Come  along,"  said  the  doctor,  breaking  into  the 
conversation ;  "  we  must  convey  the  subject  into  the 
boat." 

Half  an  hour  after  this,  Fleur-de-Marie,  who  had  not 
yet  recovered  her  senses,  was  in  the  doctor's  abode, 
lying  in  a  good  bed,  and  maternally  watched  by  M. 
Griffon's  gardener's  wife,  to  whom  was  added  La  Louve 
The  doctor  promised  M.  de  Saint-Remy,  who  was  more 
and  more  interested  in  La  Goualeuse,  to  return  to  see 
her  again  in  the  evening.  Martial  went  to  Paris  with 
Francois  and  Amandine,  La  Louve  being  unwilling  to 
quit  Fleur-de-Marie  before  she  had  been  pronounced  out 
of  danger. 

The  Isle  du  Ravageur  remained  deserted.    We  shall 
presently  find  its  sinister  inhabitants  at  Bras-Rouge's, 
303 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

where  they  were  to  be  joined  by  the  Chouette  for  the 
murder  of  the  diamond-matcher.  In  the  meantime  we 
will  conduct  the  reader  to  the  rendezvous  which  Tom, 
Sarah's  brother,  had  with  the  horrible  hag,  the  School- 
master's accomplice. 


304 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

Thomas  Seyton,  the  brother  of  the  Countess  Sarah 
Macgregor,  was  walking  impatiently  on  the  boulevards 
near  the  Observatory,  when  he  saw  the  Chouette  arrive. 
The  horrible  beldame  had  on  a  white  cap  and  her  usual 
plaid  shawl.  The  point  of  a  stiletto,  as  round  as  a  thick 
swan's  quill,  and  very  sharp,  having  perforated  a  hole 
at  the  bottom  of  her  large  straw  basket  which  she  car- 
ried on  her  arm,  the  extremity  of  this  murderous  weapon, 
which  had  belonged  to  the  Schoolmaster,  might  be  seen 
projecting.  Thomas  Seyton  did  not  perceive  that  the 
Chouette  was  armed. 

"  It  has  just  struck  three  by  the  Luxembourg,"  said  the 
old  woman.    "  Here  I  am,  like  the  hand  of  the  clock." 

"  Come,"  replied  Thomas  Seyton.  And,  preceding 
her,  he  crossed  some  open  fields ;  and  turning  down  a 
deserted  alley  near  the  Rue  Cassini,  he  stopped  half  way 
down  the  lane,  which  was  barred  by  a  turnstile,  opened 
a  small  door,  motioned  to  the  Chouette  to  follow  him ; 
and,  after  having  advanced  with  her  a  few  steps  down 
a  path  overgrown  by  thick  trees,  he  said,  "  Wait  here," 
and  disappeared. 

"  That  is,  if  you  don't  keep  me  on  the  '  waiting  lay ' 
too  long,"  responded  the  Chouette ;  "  for  I  must  be  at 
Bras  Rouge's  at  five  o'clock  to  meet  the  Martials,  and 
help  silence  the  diamond-matcher.  It's  very  well  I  have 
my  '  gulley '  (poniard).  Oh,  the  vagabond,  he  has  got  m 
his  nose  out  of  window !  "  added  the  hag,  as  she  saw 
305 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 

the  point  of  the  stiletto  coming  through  the  seam  in  the 
basket.  And  taking  the  weapon,  which  had  a  wooden 
handle,  from  the  basket,  she  replaced  it  so  that  it  was 
completely  concealed.  "  This  is  fourline's  tool,"  she 
continued,  "  and  he  has  asked  me  for  it  so  many  times 
to  kill  the  rats  who  came  skipping  about  him  in  his 
cellar.  Poor  things !  They  have  no  one  but  the  old 
blind  man  to  divert  them  and  keep  them  company. 
They  ought  not  to  be  hurt  if  they  play  about  a  bit ;  and 
so  I  will  not  let  him  hurt  the  dears,  and  I  keep  his  tool 
to  myself.  Besides,  I  shall  soon  want  it  for  this  woman, 
perhaps.  Thirty  thousand  francs'  worth  of  diamonds, — 
what  a  '  haul '  for  each  of  us !  It'll  be  a  good  day's 
work,  and  not  like  that  of  the  other  day  with  that  old 
notary  whom  I  thought  to  squeeze.  It  was  no  use  to 
threaten  him  if  he  would  not '  stand  some  blunt '  that  I 
would  lay  information  that  it  was  his  housekeeper  who 
had  sent  La  Goualeuse  to  me  by  Tournemine  when  she 
was  a  little  brat.  Nothing  frightened  the  old  brute,  he 
called  me  an  old  hag,  and  shoved  me  out-of-doors. 
Well,  well,  I'll  send  an  anonymous  letter  to  these  peo- 
ple at  the  farm  where  Pegriotte  was,  to  inform  them 
that  it  was  the  notary  who  formerly  abandoned  her  to 
me.  Perhaps  they  know  her  family ;  and  when  she  gets 
out  of  St.  Lazare,  why,  the  matter  will  get  too  hot  for 
that  old  brute,  Jacques  Ferrand.  Some  one  comes , —  ah, 
it  is  the  pale  lady  who  was  dressed  in  men's  clothes  at 
the  tapis-franc  of  the  ogress,  and  with  the  tall  fellow 
who  just  left  me,  the  same  that  the  fourline  and  I  robbed 
by  the  excavations  near  Notre-Dame,"  added  the  Chou- 
ette,  as  she  saw  Sarah  appear  at  the  extremity  of  the 
walk.  "  Here's  another  job  for  me,  I  see ;  and  this 
little  lady  must  have  something  to  do  with  our  having 
carried  off  La  Goualeuse  from  the  farm.  If  she  pays 
well  for  another  job  of  work,  why,  that  will  be  '  the 
ticket.' " 

As  Sarah  approached  the  Chouette,  whom  she  saw 

306 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


again  for  the  first  time  since  their  rencontre  at  the  tapis- 
franc,  her  countenance  expressed  the  disdain,  the  dis- 
gust, which  persons  of  a  certain  rank  feel  when  they 
come  in  contact  with  low  wretches  whom  they  take  as 
tools  or  accomplices. 

Thomas  Seyton,  who,  until  now,  had  actively  served 
the  crimiual  machinations  of  his  sister,  although  he  con- 
sidered them  as  all  but  futile,  had  refused  any  longer  to 
continue  this  contemptible  part,  consenting,  neverthe- 
less, for  the  first  and  last  time  to  put  his  sister  in 
communication  with  the  Chouette,  without  himself  inter- 
fering in  the  fresh  projects  they  might  plan.  The 
countess,  unable  to  win  back  Rodolph  to  her  by  breaking 
the  bonds  or  the  affections  which  she  believed  so  dear  to 
him,  hoped,  as  we  have  seen,  to  render  him  the  dupe  of 
a  base  deceit,  the  success  of  which  might  realise  the 
vision  of  this  obstinate,  ambitious,  and  cruel  woman. 
Her  design  was  to  persuade  Rodolph  that  their  daughter 
was  not  dead,  and  to  substitute  an  orphan  for  the  child. 

We  know  that  Jacques  Ferrand  —  having  formally 
refused  to  participate  in  this  plot  in  spite  of  Sarah's 
menaces  —  had  resolved  to  make  away  with  Fleur-de- 
Marie,  as  much  from  the  fear  of  the  Chouette's  disclosure, 
as  from  fear  of  the  obstinate  persistence  of  the  countess. 
But  the  latter  had  by  no  means  abandoned  her  design, 
feeling  persuaded  that  she  should  corrupt  or  intimidate 
the  notary  when  she  should  be  assured  of  having  ob- 
tained a  young  girl  capable  of  filling  the  character  which 
she  desired  her  to  assume. 

After  a  moment's  silence  Sarah  said  to  the  Chouette, 
"  You  are  adroit,  discreet,  and  resolute  ?  " 

"  Adroit  as  a  monkey,  resolute  as  a  bulldog,  and  mute 
as  a  fish ;  such  is  the  Chouette,  and  such  the  devil  made 
her ;  at  your  service  if  you  want  her,  —  and  you  do," 
replied  the  old  wretch,  quickly.  "  I  hope  we  have 
managed  well  with  the  young  country  wench  who  is  now 
in  St.  Lazare  for  two  good  months." 

307 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  We  are  not  talking  of  her,  but  qf  something 
else." 

"  Anything  you  please,  my  handsome  lady,  provided 
there's  money  at  the  end  of  what  you  mean  to  propose, 
and  then  we  shall  be  as  right  as  my  fingers." 

Sarah  could  not  control  a  movement  of  disgust.  "  You 
must  know,"  she  resumed,  "  many  people  in  the  lower 
ranks  of  life,  —  persons  who  are  in  misfortune  ?  " 

"  There  are  more  of  them  than  there  are  of  million- 
aires ;  you  may  pick  and  choose.  We  have  plentiful 
wretchedness  in  Paris." 

"  I  want  to  meet  with  a  poor  orphan  girl,  and  particu- 
larly if  she  lost  her  parents  young.  She  must  be 
good-looking,  of  gentle  disposition,  and  not  more  than 
seventeen  years  of  age." 

The  Chouette  gazed  at  Sarah  with  amazement. 

"  Such  an  orphan  girl  must  be  by  no  means  difficult 
to  meet  with,"  continued  the  countess ;  "  there  are  so 
many  foundling  children  !  " 

"  Why,  my  good  lady,  you  forget  La  Goualeuse.  She 
is  the  very  thing." 

"  Who  is  La  Goualeuse  ?  " 

"  The  young  thing  we  carried  off  from  Bouqueval." 

"  We  are  not  talking  of  her  now,  I  tell  you." 

"  But  hear  me,  and  be  sure  you  pay  me  well  for  my 
advice.  You  want  an  orphan  girl,  as  quiet  as  a  lamb, 
as  handsome  as  daylight,  and  who  is  only  seventeen,  you 
say?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well,  then,  take  La  Goualeuse  when  she  leaves  St. 
Lazare ;  she  is  the  very  thing  for  you,  as  if  we  had 
made  her  on  purpose.  For  she  was  about  six  years  of 
age  when  that  scamp,  Jacques  Ferrand  (and  it's  now 
ten  years  ago),  gave  her  to  me  with  a  thousand  francs, 
in  order  to  get  rid  of  her,  —  that  is  to  say,  it  was  Tour- 
nemine,  who  is  now  at  the  galleys  at  Rochefort,  who 
brought  her  to  me,  saying  there  was  no  doubt  she  was 
303 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


some  child  they  wanted  to  get  rid  of  or  pass  off  for 
dead." 

"  Jacques  Ferrand,  do  you  say  ? "  exclaimed  Sarah, 
in  a  voice  so  choked  that  the  Chouette  receded  several 
paces.  "  The  notary,  Jacques  Ferrand,  gave  you  this 
child  —  and  —  ?"  She  could  not  finish,  her  emotion 
was  too  violent ;  and  with  her  two  clasped  hands  ex- 
tended towards  the  Chouette,  she  trembled  convulsively, 
surprise  and  joy  agitating  her  features. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is  that  makes  you  so  much  in 
earnest,  my  good  lady,"  replied  the  old  hag  ;  "  but  it  is 
a  very  simple  story.  Ten  years  ago  Tournemine,  an  old 
pal  of  mine,  said  to  me :  '  Have  you  a  mind  to  take 
charge  of  a  little  girl  that  they  want  to  get  out  of  the 
way  ?  No  matter  whether  she  slips  her  wind  or  not. 
There's  a  thousand  francs  for  the  job,  and  do  what  you 
like  with  the  '  kinchin.'  " 

"  Ten  years  ago  ? "  cried  Sarah. 

"  Ten  years." 

«  A  little  fair  girl  ?  " 

«  A  little  fair  girl." 

«  With  blue  eyes?" 

"  Blue  eyes  —  as  blue  as  blue  bells." 

"  And  it  was  she  who  was  at  the  farm  ?  " 

"  And  we  packed  her  up  and  carted  her  off  to  St.  Lazare. 
I  must  say,  though,  that  I  didn't  expect  to  find  her  — 
Pegriotte  —  in  the  country  as  I  did,  though." 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu  !  mon  Dieu!"  exclaimed  Sarah,  falling 
on  her  knees,  and  elevating  her  hands  and  eyes  to 
heaven,  "  Thy  ways  are  inscrutable,  and  I  bow  down  be- 
fore thy  providence  !  Oh,  if  such  happiness  be  possible  ! 
But,  no,  I  cannot  yet  believe  it ;  it  would  be  too  fortu- 
nate !  No ! "  Then  rising  suddenly  she  said  to  the 
Chouette,  who  was  gazing  at  her  with  the  utmost  aston- 
ishment, "  Follow  me  !  "  And  Sarah  walked  before  her 
with  hasty  steps. 

At  the  end  of  the  alley  she  ascended  several  steps 
309 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


that  led  by  a  glass  door  to  a  small  room  sumptuously 
furnished.  At  the  moment  when  the  Chouette  was 
about  to  enter,  Sarah  made  a  sign  to  her  to  remain 
outside,  and  then  rang  the  bell  violently.  A  servant 
appeared. 

"  I  am  not  at  home  to  anybody,  and  let  no  one  enter 
here,  —  no  one,  do  you  hear  ? " 

The  servant  bowed  and  retired.  Sarah,  for  the 
sake  of  greater  security,  pushed  to  the  bolt.  The 
Chouette  heard  the  order  given  to  the  servant,  and 
saw  Sarah  fasten  the  bolt.  The  countess  then  turning 
towards  her,  said :  "  Come  in  quickly,  and  shut  the 
door." 

The  Chouette  did  as  she  was  bidden. 

Hastily  opening  a  secretaire,  Sarah  took  from  it  an 
ebony  coffer,  which  she  placed  on  a  writing-table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  and  beckoned  the  Chouette  towards 
her.  The  coffer  was  filled  with  small  caskets  lying  one 
upon  the  other,  and  containing  splendid  jewelry.  Sarah 
was  in  so  much  haste  to  arrive  at  the  bottom  of  the 
coffer,  that  she  hastily  scattered  over  the  table  these 
jewel-cases,  splendidly  filled  with  necklaces,  bracelets, 
tiaras  of  rubies,  emeralds,  and  diamonds,  which  sparkled 
with  a  thousand  fires. 

The  Chouette  was  dazzled.  She  was  armed,  was  alone 
with  the  countess  ;  escape  was  easy  —  certain.  An  in- 
fernal idea  shot  through  the  brain  of  this  monster.  But 
to  put  this  new  crime  into  execution  it  was  necessary  to 
extricate  her  stiletto  from  her  basket,  and  approach 
Sarah  without  exciting  her  suspicions. 

With  the  craft  of  the  tiger-cat,  who  grovels  along 
treacherously  towards  its  prey,  the  beldame  profited  by 
the  countess's  preoccupation  to  move  imperceptibly  around 
the  table  which  separated  her  from  her  victim.  The 
Chouette  had  already  begun  her  perfidious  movement, 
when  she  was  compelled  suddenly  to  stop  short.  Sarah 
took  a  locket  from  the  bottom  of  the  box,  leaned  over 
310 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


the  table,  and,  handing  it  to  the  Chouette  with  a  trem- 
bling hand,  said  : 

"  Look  at  this  portrait." 

"  It  is  Pegriotte ! "  exclaimed  the  Chouette,  struck 
with  the  strong  resemblance  ;  "  it  is  the  little  girl  who 
was  handed  to  me !  I  think  I  see  her  just  as  she  was 
when  Tournemine  brought  her  to  me.  That's  just  like 
her  long  curling  hair,  which  I  cut  off  and  sold  directly, 
ma  foil" 

"  You  recognise  her ;  it  is  really  she  ?  Oh,  I  conjure 
you,  do  not  deceive  me  —  do  not  deceive  me  ! " 

"  I  tell  you,  my  good  lady,  it  is  Pegriotte,  as  if  I  saw 
herself  there,"  said  the  Chouette,  trying  to  draw  nearer 
to  Sarah  without  being  remarked.  "  And  even  now  she 
is  very  like  this  portrait ;  if  you  saw  her  you  would  be 
struck  by  the  likeness." 

Sarah  had  not  uttered  one  cry  of  pain  or  alarm  when 
she  learned  that  her  daughter  had  been  for  ten  years 
leading  a  wretched  existence,  forsaken  as  she  was.  Not 
one  feeling  of  remorse  was  there  when  she  reflected  that 
she  herself  had  snatched  her  away  disastrously  from  the 
peaceful  retreat  in  which  Rodolph  had  placed  her.  This 
unnatural  mother  did  not  eagerly  question  the  Chouette 
with  terrible  anxiety  as  to  the  past  life  of  the  child. 
No !  In  her  heart  ambition  had  long  since  stifled  every 
sentiment  of  maternal  tenderness.  It  was  not  joy  at 
again  being  restored  to  a  lost  daughter  that  transported 
her,  —  it  was  the  hope  of  seeing  at  length  realised  the 
vain  dream  of  her  whole  existence.  Rodolph  had  felt 
deeply  interested  in  this  unfortunate  girl,  had  protected 
her  without  knowing  her  ;  what  would  then  be  his  feel- 
ings when  he  discovered  that  she  was  —  his  daughter  ? 
He  was  free  —  the  countess  was  a  widow !  Sarah 
already  saw  the  sovereign  crown  sparkling  on  her 
brow. 

The  Chouette,  still  stealing  on  with  slow  steps,  had  at 
length  reached  one  end  of  the  table,  and  had  her  stiletto 
311 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


perpendicularly  in  her  basket,  its  handle  on  a  level  with 
the  opening,  and  within  her  clutch.  She  was  but  a  step 
or  two  from  the  countess. 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  write  ?  "  inquired  Sarah  of  her ; 
and,  pushing  from  her  the  casket  and  gems,  she  opened 
a  blotting-book,  which  was  by  an  inkstand. 

"No,  madame;  I  do  not!"  replied  the  Chouette,  at 
all  risks. 

"  I  will  write,  then,  at  your  dictation.  Tell  me  all 
the  circumstances  of  the  abandonment  of  this  little 
girl." 

And  Sarah,  sitting  in  an  armchair  before  the  writing- 
table,  took  up  a  pen,  and  made  a  sign  to  the  Chouette  to 
come  close  to  her.  The  old  wretch's  one  eye  sparkled. 
At  last  she  was  standing  up,  close  to  the  seat  on  which 
Sarah  was  sitting,  and,  stooping  over  a  table,  was  pre- 
paring to  write. 

"  I  will  read  aloud,  and  then,"  said  the  countess,  "  you 
can  correct  any  mistakes." 

"  Yes,  madame,"  replied  the  Chouette,  narrowly 
watching  every  motion  of  Sarah ;  and  she  furtively 
introduced  her  hand  into  her  basket,  that  she  might 
be  able  to  grasp  the  poniard  without  being  observed. 

The  countess  commenced  writing. 

"  I  declare  that  —  " 

Then  interrupting  herself,  and  turning  towards  the 
Chouette,  who  was  at  the  moment  touching  the  handle 
of  her  poniard,  Sarah  added : 

"  At  what  period  was  the  child  brought  to  you  ?  " 

« In  the  month  of  February,  1827." 

"  And  by  whom  ? "  continued  Sarah,  turning  towards 
the  Chouetto. 

"  By  Pierre  Tournemine,  now  at  the  galleys  at 
Rochefort.  It  was  Madame  Seraphin,  the  notary's 
housekeeper,  who  brought  the  young  girl  to  him." 

The  countess  continued  writing,  and  then  read 
aloud : 

312 


THE  PORTRAIT. 


"  I  declare  that,  in  the  month  of  February,  1827,  a 
person  named — " 

The  Chouette  had  drawn  the  poniard ;  already  had 
she  raised  her  arm  to  strike  her  victim  between  the 
shoulders ;  Sarah  turned  again.  The  Chouette,  that 
she  might  not  be  off  her  guard,  leaned  her  right 
hand,  armed  as  it  was,  on  the  back  of  Sarah's  arm- 
chair, and  then  stooped  towards  her,  as  if  in  attitude 
to  reply  to  her  question. 

"  Tell  me  again  the  name  of  the  man  who  handed  the 
child  to  you?"  said  the  countess. 

"  Pierre  Tournemine,"  repeated  Sarah,  as  she  wrote  it 
down,  "  at  this  time  at  the  galleys  of  Rochefort,  brought 
me  a  child,  which  had  been  confided  to  him  by  the 
housekeeper  of  —  " 

The  countess  could  not  finish.  The  Chouette  having 
got  rid  of  her  basket  by  allowing  it  to  slide  from  her 
arm  onto  the  floor,  threw  herself  on  the  countess  with 
equal  fury  and  rapidity ;  and  having  grasped  the  back 
of  her  neck  with  her  left  hand,  forced  her  face  down  on 
the  table,  and  then  with  her  right  hand  drove  the 
stiletto  in  between  her  two  shoulders. 

This  atrocious  assassination  was  so  promptly  effected 
that  the  countess  did  not  utter  a  cry  —  a  moan.  Still 
sitting,  she  remained  with  her  head  and  the  front 
of  her  body  on  the  table.  Her  pen  fell  from  her 
fingers. 

"  Just  the  very  blow  which  fourline  gave  the  little  old 
man  in  the  Rue  du  Roule ! "  said  the  monster.  "  One 
more  who  will  never  wag  tongue  again !  Her  account 
is  settled ! "  And  the  Chouette,  gathering  up  the  jewels 
together,  huddled  them  into  her  basket,  not  perceiving 
that  her  victim  still  breathed. 

The  murder  and  robbery  effected,  the  horrid  old 
devil  opened  the  glass  door,  ran  swiftly  along  the  tree- 
covered  path,  went  out  by  the  small  side  door,  and 
reached  the  lone  tract  of  ground.  Near  the  Observa- 
313 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


tory  she  took  a  hackney-coach,  which  drove  her  to 
Bras-Rouge's  in  the  Champs  Elysees. 

The  widow  Martial,  Nicholas,  Calabash,  and  Barbillon 
had,  as  we  know,  an  appointment  with  the  Chouette  in 
this  den  of  infamy,  in  order  to  rob  and  murder  the 
diamond-matcher. 


314 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  AGENT  OF  SAFETY. 

The  reader  already  knows  the  Bleeding  Heart  in  the 
Champs  Elys6es,  near  the  Court  de  la  Reine,  in  one  of 
the  deep  ditches  which,  a  few  years  since,  were  close 
to  -this  promenade.  The  inhabitants  of  the  Isle  du 
Ravageur  had  not  yet  arrived. 

After  the  departure  of  Bradamanti,  who  had,  as  we 
know,  accompanied  Madame  d'Harville's  stepmother 
into  Normandy,  Tortillard  had  returned  to  his  father. 
Placed  as  a  sentinel  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  the  little 
cripple  was  to  announce  the  arrival  of  the  Martials  by 
a  certain  cry,  Bras-Rouge  being  at  this  moment  in  secret 
conference  with  an  agent-de-stirete  named  Narcisse  Borel, 
whom  the  reader  may  perchance  remember  to  have  seen 
at  the  tapis-franc  of  the  ogress,  when  he  came  there  to 
arrest  two  miscreants  accused  of  murder. 

This  agent,  a  man  about  forty  years  of  age,  was  thick- 
set and  powerful,  with  a  high  colour,  a  keen,  quick  eye, 
his  face  entirely  shaven,  in  order  that  he  might  better 
assume  the  various  disguises  necessary  for  his  dangerous 
expeditions ;  for  it  was  frequently  necessary  for  him  to 
unite  the  transformations  of  the  actor  to  the  courage  and 
energy  of  the  soldier,  in  order  to  seize  on  certain  ruffians 
with  whom  he  had  to  contend  in  cunning  and  determi- 
nation. Narcisse  Borel  was,  in  a  word,  one  of  the  most 
useful  and  most  active  instruments  of  that  providence 
315 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


on  a  small  scale  which  is  modestly  and  commonly  termed 
the  police. 

We  will  return  to  the  conversation  between  Narcisse 
Borel  and  Bras-Rouge,  which  appeared  to  be  very  ani- 
mated. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  agent  of  safety ;  "  you  are  accused  of 
profiting  by  your  double-faced  position,  and  of  taking 
with  impunity  a  share  in  the  booty  of  a  band  of  most 
dangerous  malefactors,  and  then  giving  false  informa- 
tion respecting  them  to  the  protective  police.  Take 
care,  Bras-Rouge  ;  for  if  you  are  detected  no  mercy  will 
be  shown  you ! " 

"  Alas !  I  know  I  am  accused  of  this ;  and  it  is  very 
distressing  for  me,  my  good  M.  Narcisse,"  replied  Bras- 
Rouge,  whilst  his  weasel's  face  assumed  a  hypocritical 
air  of  vexation.  "  But  I  hope  that  this  day  will  at  last 
do  me  justice,  and  my  good  faith  will  be  recognised." 

"  That  remains  to  be  proved." 

"  How  can  I  be  distrusted  —  have  I  not  given  proofs  ? 
Was  it  I  or  was  it  not  who,  at  the  time,  enabled  you  to 
apprehend  Ambroise  Martial,  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
malefactors  in  Paris,  in  the  very  fact  ? " 

"  All  this  is  very  fine  and  good ;  but  Ambroise  was 
warned  they  were  going  to  arrest  him,  and  if  I  had  not 
been  earlier  than  the  hour  you  told  me  of,  he  would  have 
escaped." 

"  Do  you  think  me  capable,  M.  Narcisse,  of  having 
secretly  told  him  of  your  coming  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  that  I  received  from  the  scoundrel  a 
pistol-shot  aimed  full  at  me,  but  which,  fortunately,  only 
grazed  my  arm." 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,  M.  Narcisse,  in  your  profession  you 
must  be  occasionally  exposed  to  such  mistakes !  " 

"  Ah,  you  call  these  mistakes,  eh  ? " 

"  Certainly ;  for,  no  doubt,  the  wicked  fellow  intended 
to  lodge  the  ball  in  your  body." 

316 


THE  AGENT  OF  SAFETY. 


"  In  the  arm,  body,  or  head,  no  matter,  I  don't  com- 
plain of  that ;  every  profession  has  its  disagreeables." 

"  And  its  pleasures,  too,  M.  Narcisse,  and  its  pleasures. 
For  instance,  when  a  man  as  cunning,  as  skilful,  and 
as  courageous  as  you,  has  been  for  a  long  time  on 
the  track  of  a  gang  of  villains,  whom  he  follows  from 
quarter  to  quarter,  from  lurking-place  to  lurking-place, 
with  a  good  bloodhound  like  your  poor  servant  to  com- 
mand, Bras-Rouge,  and,  finally,  marks  them  down  and 
comes  upon  them  in  a  trap  from  which  not  one  of  them 
can  escape,  why,  then,  you  must  say,  M.  Narcisse,  that 
there  is  great  pleasure  in  it,  —  the  joy  of  a  sportsman,  — 
not  including  the  service  he  renders  to  justice ! "  added 
the  host  of  the  Bleeding  Heart,  with  a  grave  air. 

"  I  should  fully  agree  with  you  if  the  bloodhound  were 
faithful,  but  I  fear  it  is  not." 

"  Ah,  M.  Narcisse,  you  think  —  " 

"  I  think  that,  instead  of  putting  us  on  the  track,  you 
amuse  yourself  with  setting  us  on  a  false  scent,  and 
abuse  the  confidence  placed  in  you.  Every  day  you 
promise  to  aid  us  to  lay  hands  on  the  gang,  and  that 
day  never  arrives." 

"  What  if  the  day  arrives  to-day,  M.  Narcisse,  as  I  am 
sure  it  will  ?  What  if  I  bring  together  in  a  parcel  Bar- 
billon,  Nicholas  Martial,  the  widow,  her  daughter,  and 
the  Chouette  ?  Will  that  or  will  it  not  be  a  good 
sweep  of  the  net?  Will  you  then  mistrust  me  any 
longer  ? " 

"  No ;  and  you  will  have  rendered  a  real  service  ;  for 
there  are  very  strong  presumptive  facts  against  this 
gang,  —  suspicions  almost  assured,  but,  unfortunately,  no 
proofs." 

"  So,  then,  a  small  fag-end  of  actual  crime,  which 
would  allow  of  their  being  apprehended,  would  help 
amazingly  to  unravel  the  difficult  skein,  —  eh,  M.  Nar- 
cisse ?  " 

"  Most  decidedly.    And  you  assure  me  that  there  has 
317 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


not  been  the  slightest  incitement  on  your  part  towards 
the  coup  which  they  are  now  going  to  attempt  ? " 

"  No,  on  my  honour !  It  is  the  Chouette,  who  came 
to  me  to  propose  inveigling  the  diamond-matcher  here 
when  that  infernal  hag  learned  from  my  son  that  Morel, 
the  lapidary,  who  lives  in  the  Rue  du  Temple,  was  a 
workman  in  real  stones,  and  not  in  false,  and  that 
Mother  Mathieu  had  frequently  considerable  value  about 
her  person,  I  acceded  to  the  proposition,  and  suggested 
to  the  Chouette  that  the  Martials  and  Barbillon  should  -) 
join  her,  so  that  I  might  be  able  to  put  the  whole  party 
into  your  hands." 

"  And  the  Schoolmaster,  —  that  fellow  who  is  so  dan- 
gerous, so  powerful,  and  so  ferocious,  and  who  was 
always  with  the  Chouette,  —  one  of  the  frequenters  of 
the  tapis-franc?" 

"The  Schoolmaster?"  said  Bras-Rouge,  feigning  as- 
tonishment. 

"  Yes,  a  convict  escaped  from  the  galleys  at  Roche- 
fort,  Anselm  Duresnel  by  name,  sentenced  for  life.  We 
know  now  that  he  disfigured  himself  on  purpose,  that 
he  might  not  be  recognised.  Have  you  no  trace  of 
him  ?  " 

"  None,"  replied  Bras-Rouge,  boldly,  for  he  had  his 
reasons  for  the  lie,  the  Schoolmaster  being  at  this  very 
moment  shut  up  in  one  of  the  cellars  of  the  cabaret. 

"  There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  School- 
master is  the  author  of  fresh  murders.  He  would  be  an 
important  capture." 

"  No  one  knows  what  has  become  of  him  for  the  last 
six  weeks." 

"  And  that's  the  reason  you  are  reproached  with 
having  lost  all  trace  of  him." 

"  Always  reproaches,  M.  Narcisse,  always  !  " 

"  Not  for  want  of  ample  cause !  And  how  goes  on  the 
smuggling  ?  " 

« Is  it  not  necessary  that  I  should  know  something  of 
318 


THE  AGENT  OF  SAFETY. 


all  kinds  of  persons  —  smugglers  as  well  as  others  —  in 
order  to  put  you  on  the  scent  ?  I  disclosed  to  you  that 
pipe  to  introduce  liquids,  established  outside  the  Barri&re 
du  Tr6ne,  and  coming  into  a  house  in  the  street." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Narcisse,  interrupting  Bras- 
Rouge  ;  "  but  for  one  that  you  denounce,  you  allow  ten 
to  escape,  and  continue  your  traffic  with  impunity.  I  am 
sure  you  eat  at  two  mangers,  as  the  saying  is." 

"  Oh,  M.  Narcisse,  I  am  incapable  of  an  appetite  so 
dishonest ! " 

« That  is  not  all :  in  the  Rue  du  Temple,  No.  17, 
there  lives  a  woman  named  Burette,  who  lends  money 
on  deposit,  who,  they  say,  is  a  private  receiver  of  stolen 
goods  on  your  account." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do,  M.  Narcisse  ?  The 
world  is  so  slanderous,  —  says  so  many  wicked  things ! 
Once  again,  I  say,  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  mix  with  as 
many  rogues  as  possible,  that  I  even  seem  one  of  them- 
selves —  so  much  the  worse  for  them  —  in  order  that 
they  may  not  have  any  suspicions  ;  but  it  cuts  me  to  the 
heart  to  imitate  them,  —  cuts  me  to  the  heart.  I  must, 
indeed,  be  devoted  to  the  service,  to  give  myself  up  to 
such  a  thing  as  that." 

"  Poor,  dear  man !    I  pity  you  with  all  my  soul !  " 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me,  M.  Narcisse ;  but,  if  that 
was  believed,  why  has  there  not  been  a  search  made  at 
Mother  Burette's  and  in  my  house  ? " 

"  You  know  well  enough,  —  that  we  might  not  alarm 
the  ruffians,  whom,  for  so  long  a  time,  you  have  prom- 
ised to  deliver  into  our  hands." 

"  And  I  am  now  about  to  deliver  them,  M.  Narcisse ; 
before  an  hour  you  will  have  them  all  handcuffed,  and 
that  without  much  trouble,  for  there  are  three  women. 
As  to  Barbillon  and  Nicholas  Martial,  they  are  as  savage 
as  tigers,  but  as  cowardly  as  pullets." 

"Tigers  or  pullets,"  said  Narcisse,  half  opening  his 
long  frock  coat,  and  showing  the  butts  of  two  pistols  in 
319 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


the  pockets  of  his  trousers,  "  I  have  wherewithal  here  for 
them." 

"  You  will  do  well  to  have  two  of  your  men  with  you, 
M.  Narcisse.  When  they  see  themselves  caught,  the 
most  cowardly  sometimes  show  fight." 

"I  shall  station  two  of  my  men  in  the  small  parlour 
at  the  entrance,  by  the  side  of  the  room  into  which  you 
are  to  introduce  the  jewel-matcher.  At  the  first  cry,  I 
shall  appear  at  one  door,  and  my  two  men  at  the  other." 

"  You  must  be  speedy,  then,  for  I  expect  the  gang  here 
every  moment,  M.  Narcisse." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  go  at  once  and  place  my  men,,  pro- 
vided that  all  this  is  not  another  humbug." 

The  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the  peculiar  whistle 
intended  as  a  signal.  Bras-Rouge  looked  out  of  a  window 
to  see  whom  it  was  that  Tortillard  announced. 

"  Ah,  ha !  It  is  the  Chouette  already.  Well,  do  you 
believe  me  now,  M.  Narcisse  ? " 

"  Why,  this  looks  something  like ;  but  it  is  not  all. 
But  we  shall  see.    And  now  to  station  my  men." 

And  the  agent  of  safety  disappeared  at  a  side  door. 


320 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE  CHOUETTE. 

The  precipitation  of  the  Chouette's  step,  the  fierce 
throbbings  of  a  fever  of  rapine  and  murder  which  still 
animated  her,  had  suffused  her  hideous  features  with  a 
deep  purple,  whilst  her  green  eye  sparkled  with  savage 
joy.  Tortillard  followed  her,  hopping  and  skipping.  At 
the  moment  when  she  descended  the  last  steps  of  the 
stairs,  Bras-Rouge's  son,  from  pure  mischief,  put  his  foot 
on  the  long  and  dragging  skirts  of  the  Chouette's  gown. 
This  sudden  stoppage  made  the  old  woman  stumble,  and, 
unable  to  catch  hold  of  the  baluster,  she  fell  on  her 
knees,  her  two  hands  extended,  and  dropping  her  pre- 
cious basket,  whence  escaped  a  gold  bracelet  set  with 
emeralds  and  pearls.  The  Chouette  having,  in  her  fall, 
somewhat  excoriated  her  fingers,  picked  up  the  bracelet, 
which  had  not  escaped  the  keen  sight  of  Tortillard,  and, 
recovering  her  feet,  turned  furiously  to  the  little  cripple, 
who  approached  her  with  a  hypocritical  air,  saying  to 
her: 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !    Did  your  foot  slip  ?  " 

Without  making  any  reply,  the  Chouette  seized  Tortil- 
lard by  the  hair,  and,  stooping  to  a  level  with  his  cheek, 
she  bit  it  with  such  fury  that  the  blood  spurted  out  be- 
neath her  teeth.  Strange,  however,  Tortillard,  in  spite 
of  his  usual  vindictiveness,  in  spite  of  feeling  such  intense 
pain,  did  not  utter  a  murmur  or  a  cry.  He  only  wiped  his 
bleeding  cheek,  and  said,  with  a  forced  laugh : 
321 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  I  hope  next  time  you  will  not  kiss  me  so  hard,  —  eh, 
La  Chouette  ? " 

"  Wicked  little  brat !  Why  did  you  tread  on  my  gown 
on  purpose  to  make  me  fall  ?" 

"  Me  ?  Oh  !  How  could  you  think  so  ?  I  swear  I 
didn't  do  it  on  purpose,  my  dear  Chouette !  Don't  think 
your  little  Tortillard  would  do  you  any  harm  ;  he  loves 
you  too  well  for  that.  You  should  never  beat  him,  or 
scold  him,  or  bite  him,  for  he  is  as  fond  of  you  as  if  he 
were  a  poor  little  dog,  and  you  were  his  mistress  !  "  said 
the  boy,  in  a  gentle  and  insinuating  tone. 

Deceived  by  Tortillard's  hypocrisy,  the  Chouette 
believed  him,  and  replied : 

"  Well,  well,  if  I  was  wrong  to  bite  you,  why,  let  it  go 
for  all  the  other  times  you  have  deserved  it,  you  little 
villain !  But,  vive  la  joie  !  To-day  I  bear  no  malice. 
Where  is  your  old  rogue  of  a  father  ? " 

"  In  the  house.    Shall  I  go  and  find  him  for  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  are  the  Martials  here  ? " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Then  I  have  time  to  go  down  and  visit  fourline.  I 
want  to  speak  to  old  No-Eyes." 

"  Will  you  go  into  the  Schoolmaster's  cellar  ? " 
inquired  Tortillard,  scarcely  concealing  his  diabolical 
delight. 

"  What's  that  to  you  ? " 

"  To  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  ask  me  the  question  with  such  an  odd 
air." 

"  Because  I  was  thinking  of  something  odd." 
«  What  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  you  ought,  at  least,  to  have  brought  him 
a  pack  of  cards  to  pass  away  his  time,"  replied  Tortillard, 
with  a  cunning  look ;  "  that  would  divert  him  a  little ; 
now  he  has  nothing  to  play  at  but  not  to  be  bitten  by  the 
rats  ;  and  he  always  wins  at  that  game,  and  after  awhile 
it  becomes  tiresome." 

322 


THE  CHOUETTE. 


The  Ohouette  laughed  heartily  at  Tortillard's  wit,  and 
said  to  the  cripple  : 

"  Love  of  a  baby  boy  to  his  mammy !  I  do  not  know 
any  chap  who  has  more  vice  than  this  scamp.  Go  and 
get  me  a  candle,  that  you  may  light  me  down  to  see  four- 
line,  and  you  can  help  me  to  open  his  door.  You  know 
that  I  can  hardly  push  it  by  myself." 

"  Well,  no,  it  is  so  very  dark  in  the  cellar,"  said 
Tortillard,  shaking  his  head. 

"  What !  What !  You  who  are  as  wicked  as  devil 
to  be  a  coward  ?  I  like  to  see  that,  indeed !  Go  directly, 
and  tell  your  father  that  I  shall  be  with  him  almost 
immediately  ;  that  I  am  with  fourline  ;  and  that  we  are 
talking  of  putting  up  the  banns  for  our  marriage.  He, 
he,  he  !  "  added  the  disgusting  wretch,  grinning.  "  So 
make  haste,  and  you  shall  be  bridesman,  and,  if  you  are 
a  good  boy,  you  shall  have  my  garter." 

Tortillard  went,  with  a  sulky  air,  to  fetch  a  light. 
Whilst  she  was  waiting  for  him,  the  Chouette,  perfectly 
intoxicated  with  the  success  of  her  robbery,  put  her  hand 
into  her  basket  to  feel  the  precious  jewels  it  enclosed.  It 
was  for  the  purpose  of  temporarily  concealing  this  treas- 
ure that  she  desired  to  descend  into  the  Schoolmaster's 
cellar,  and  not,  according  to  her  habit,  to  enjoy  the  tor- 
ments of  her  new  victim. 

We  will  presently  explain  why,  with  Bras-Rouge's 
connivance,  the  Chouette  had  immured  the  Schoolmaster 
in  the  very  subterranean  cave  into  which  this  miscreant 
had  formerly  precipitated  Rodolph. 

Tortillard,  holding  a  light,  now  appeared  at  the  door 
of  the  cabaret.  The  Chouette  followed  him  into  the  lower 
room,  in  which  opened  the  trap  with  the  folding-doors, 
with  which  we  are  already  acquainted.  Bras-Rouge's 
son,  sheltering  the  light  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and 
preceding  the  old  woman,  slowly  descended  a  stone  stair- 
case, which  led  to  a  sharp  declivity,  at  the  end  of  which 
was  the  thick  door  of  the  cellar  which  had  so  nearly 
323 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


proved  Rodolph's  grave.    When  he  reached  the  bottom 

of  the  staircase,  Tortillard  pretended  to  hesitate  in 

following  the  Chouette. 

"  Well,  now,  you  little  vagabond,  go  on !  "  she  said.  t 
"  Why,  it  is  so  dark  ;  and  you  go  so  fast,  Chouette ! 

And,  indeed,  I'd  rather  go  back  again,  and  leave  you  the 

light." 

"  And  then,  foolish  imp,  how  am  I  to  open  the  cellar 
door  by  myself  ?    Will  you  come  on  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  so  frightened  ! " 

"  If  I  begin  with,  you  !    Mind  —  " 

"  If  you  threaten  me,  I'll  go  back  again ! "  and  Tor- 
tillard retreated  several  paces. 

"Well,  listen  to  me,  now,  —  be  a  good  boy,"  said 
the  Chouette,  repressing  her  anger,  "  and  I'll  give  you 
something." 

"  Well,  what  ? "  said  Tortillard,  coming  up  to  her. 
"  Speak  to  me  so  always,  and  I'll  do  anything  you  wish 
me,  Mother  Chouette." 

"  Come,  come,  I'm  in  a  hurry  !  " 

"  Yes ;  but  promise  me  that  I  may  have  some  fun 
with  the  Schoolmaster." 

"  Another  time  ;  I  haven't  time  to-day." 

"  Only  a  little  bit,  —  just  let  me  tease  him  for  five 
minutes  ?  " 

"  Another  time ;  I  tell  you  that  I  want  to  return 
up-stairs  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  want  to  open  the  door  of  his 
apartment  ?  " 

"  That's  no  affair  of  yours.  Come,  now,  have  done 
with  this.  Perhaps  the  Martials  are  come  by  this 
time,  and  I  must  have  some  talk  with  them.  So  be 
a  good  boy,  and  you  sha'n't  be  sorry  for  it.  Come 
along." 

"  I  must  love  you  very  much,  Chouette,  for  you 
make  me  do  just  what  you  like,"  said  Tortillard,  slowly 
advancing. 

324 


THE  CHOUETTE. 


The  dim,  wavering  light  of  the  candle,  which  but 
imperfectly  lighted  this  gloomy  way,  reflected  the  black 
profile  of  this  hideous  brat  on  the  slimy  walls,  which 
were  full  of  crevices  and  reeking  with  damp.  At  the 
end  of  this  passage,  through  the  half  obscurity,  might 
be  seen  the  low  and  crumbling  arch  of  the  entrance  to 
the  cellar,  the  thick  door  strengthened  with  iron  bars, 
and,  standing  out  in  the  shade,  the  red  shawl  and  white 
cap  of  the  Chouette. 

By  the  united  exertions  of  the  two,  the  door  opened 
harshly  on  its  rusty  hinges ;  a  puff  of  humid  vapour 
escaped  from  this  den,  as  dark  as  midnight.  The  light, 
placed  on  the  ground,  threw  its  faint  beams  on  the  first 
steps  of  the  stone  staircase,  the  bottom  of  which  was 
completely  lost  in  the  darkness.  A  cry,  or,  rather,  a 
savage  roar,  came  from  the  depths  of  the  cave. 

"  Ah,  there's  f outline  wishing  his  mamma  good-morn- 
ing !  "  said  the  Chouette,  with  a  sneer. 

And  she  descended  several  steps,  in  order  to  conceal 
her  basket  in  some  hole. 

"  I'm  hungry ! "  exclaimed  the  Schoolmaster,  in  a 
voice  that  shook  with  rage ;  "  do  you  wish  to  kill  me 
like  a  mad  dog  ?  " 

"  What's  the  deary  lovey  hungry  ? "  said  the  Chou- 
ette, with  a  laugh  of  mockery ;  "  then  smell  its 
thumb." 

There  was  a  sound  like  that  of  a  chain  twisted  vio- 
lently ;  then  a  groan  of  mute,  repressed  passion. 

"  Take  care !  Take  care,  or  you'll  have  a  bump  in 
your  leg,  as  you  had  at  Bouqueval  farm,  poor  dear  pa  ! " 
said  Tortillard. 

"  He's  right,  the  boy  is,  —  keep  yourself  quiet,  four- 
line"  continued  the  hag ;  "  the  ring  and  chain  are  solid, 
old  No-Eyes,  for  they  came  from  Father  Micou's,  and  he 
sells  nothing  but  the  best  goods.  It  is  your  fault,  too ; 
why  did  you  allow  yourself  to  be  bound  whilst  you  were 
asleep  ?  We  only  had  then  to  put  the  ring  and  chain  in 
325 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


this  place,  and  bring  you  down  here  in  the  cool  to  pre- 
serve you,  old  darling." 

"  That's  a  pity !   He'll  grow  mouldy,"  said  Tortillard. 
Again  the  clank  of  the  chain  was  heard.  * 
"  He,  he,  fourline !    Why,  he's  dancing  like  a  cock- 
chafer tied  by  the  claw,"  said  the  beldame,  "  I  think  I 
see  him ! " 

"  Cockchafer,  cockchafer,  fly  away  home !  Fly,  fly, 
fly !  Your  husband  is  the  Schoolmaster ! "  sung  Tortil- 
lard. 

This  increased  the  Chouette's  hilarity.  Having  de- 
posited her  basket  in  a  hole  formed  by  the  lowering  of 
the  wall  of-  the  staircase,  she  stood  erect,  and  said  : 

"  You  see,  fourline  —  " 

"  He  don't  see,"  said  Tortillard. 

"The  brat's  right.  Will  you  hear, fourline?  There 
was  no  occasion,  when  we  came  away  from  the  farm,  to 
be  such  a  booby  as  to  turn  compassionate,  and  prevent 
me  from  marking  Pegriotte's  face  with  my  vitriol  ;  and 
then,  too,  you  talked  of  your  conscience,  which  was  get- 
ting troubled.  I  saw  you  were  growing  lily-livered,  and 
meant  to  come  the  '  honest  dodge  ; '  and  so,  some  of  these 
odd-come-shortlies,  you  would  have  turned  '  nose '  (in- 
former), and  have  'made  a  meal'  of  us,  old  No-Eyes; 
and  then  —  " 

"  Then  old  No-Eyes  will  make  a  meal  of  you,  for  he 
is  hungry,  Chouette,"  said  Tortillard,  suddenly,  and  with 
all  his  strength  pushing  the  old  woman  by  her  back. 

The  Chouette  fell  forward  with  a  horrible  imprecation. 
She  might  have  been  distinctly  heard  as  she  rolled  from 
the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  staircase. 

"  Bump,  bump,  bump,  bump !  There's  the  Chouette 
for  you  —  there  she  is  !  -Why  don't  you  jump  upon  her, 
old  buffer?"  added  Torfillard. 

Then,  seizing  the  basket  from  under  the  stone  where 
he  had  seen  the  old  woman  place  it,  he  scampered  up  the 
stairs,  exclaiming,  with  a  shout  of  savage  joy: 
326 


THE  CHOUETTE. 


"  Here's  a  pull  worth  more  than  that  you  had  before, 
—  eh,  Chouette  ?  This  time  you  won't  bite  me  till  the 
blood  comes,  —  eh  ?  Ah,  you  thought  I  bore  no  spite  — 
much  obliged  —  my  cheek  bleeds  still !  " 

"  Oh,  I  have  her !  I  have  her ! "  cried  the  School- 
master, from  the  depth  of  the  cave. 

"  If  you  have  her,  old  lad,  I  cry  snacks,"  said  Tor- 
tillard,  with  a  laugh. 

And  he  stopped  on  the  top  step  of  the  stairs. 

"  Help ! "  shrieked  the  Chouette,  in  a  strangling 
voice. 

"  Thanks,  Tortillard  !  "  said  the  Schoolmaster, "  thanks. 
And,  to  reward  you,  you  shall  hear  the  night-bird 
(Chouette)  shriek  !  Listen,  boy,  —  listen  to  the  bird  of 
death!" 

"  Bravo !  Here  I  am  in  the  dress-boxes ! "  said  Tor- 
tillard, seating  himself  on  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

As  he  said  this,  he  raised  the  light  to  endeavour  to 
see  the  fearful  scene  which  was  going  on  in  the  depths 
of  the  cavern  ;  but  the  darkness  was  too  thick,  so  faint 
a  light  could  not  disperse  it :  Bras-Rouge's  son  could  not 
see  anything.  The  struggle  with  the  Schoolmaster  and 
the  Chouette  was  mute,  deadly,  without  a  word,  without 
a  cry;  only  from  time  to  time  was  heard  the  hard 
breathing,  or  the  stifled  groan,  which  always  accompa- 
nies violent  and  desperate  efforts.  Tortillard,  seated  on 
the  step,  began  to  stamp  his  feet  with  that  cadence 
peculiar  to  an  audience  impatient  to  see  the  beginning 
of  a  play;  then  he  uttered  the  cry  so  familiar  to  the 
frequenters  of  the  gallery  of  the  minor  theatres  : 

"  Music  !    Music  !    Play  up  !    Up  with  the  curtain  !  " 

"  Oh,  now- 1  have  hold  of  you,  as  I  desired,"  mur- 
mured the  Schoolmaster,  from  the  recess  of  the  cellar ; 
"  and  you  were  going —  " 

A  desperate  movement  of  the  Chouette  interrupted 
him ;  she  struggled  with  all  the  energy  which  the  fear 
of  death  inspires. 

327 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


"  Louder  !    Can't  hear !  "  bawled  Tortillard. 

"  It  is  in  vain  you  try  to  gnaw  my  hand,  I  will  hold 
you  as  I  like,"  said  the  Schoolmaster.  Then,*having, 
no  doubt,  succeeded  in  keeping  the  Chouette  down,  he 
added,  «  That's  it !    Now  listen  —  " 

"  Tortillard,  call  your  father !  "  shrieked  the  Chouette, 
with  a  faltering,  exhausted  voice.    "  Help  !    Help  !  " 

"  Turn  her  out,  the  old  thing !  She  won't  let  us 
hear,"  said  the  little  cripple,  with  a  shout  of  laughter ; 
"  put  her  out !  " 

The  Chouette's  cries  were  not  audible  from  this  cav- 
ern, low  as  it  was.  The  wretched  creature,  seeing  that 
there  was  no  chance  of  help  from  Bras-Rouge's  son, 
resolved  to  try  a  last  effort. 

"  Tortillard,  go  and  fetch  help,  and  I  will  give  you 
my  basket;  it  is  full  of  jewels.  There  it  is,  under 
a  stone." 

"  How  generous !  Thank  ye,  madame.  Why,  haven't 
I  got  it  already?  Hark!  Don't  you  hear  how  it 
rattles  ? "  said  Tortillard,  shaking  it.  "  But  now,  if 
you'll  give  us  half  a  pound  of  gingerbread  nuts,  I'll 
go  and  fetch  pa." 

"  Have  pity  on  me,  and  I  will  —  " 

The  Chouette  was  unable  to  conclude.  Again  there 
was  a  profound  silence.  The  little  cripple  again  began 
to  beat  time  on  the  stone  staircase  on  which  he  was 
seated,  accompanying  the  noise  of  his  feet  with  the 
repeated  cry  : 

"  Why  don't  you  begin  ?  Up  with  the  curtain ! 
Music  !    Music !  " 

"  In  this  way,  Chouette,  you  can  no  longer  disturb 
me  with  your  cries,"  said  the  Schoolmaster,  after  a  few 
minutes,  during  which  he  had,  no  doubt,  gagged  the 
old  woman.  "  You  know  very  well,"  he  continued,  in 
a  slow,  hollow  voice,  "  that  I  do  not  wish  to  end  this  all 
at  once  ;  torture  for  torture  !  You  have  made  me  suffer 
enough,  and  I  must  speak  at  length  to  you  before  I  kill 
328 


THE  CHOUETTE. 


you,  —  yes,  at  length.  It  will  be  very  terrible  for  you, 
agonising !  " 

"  Come,  no  stuff  and  nonsense,  old  parson,"  said  Tortil- 
lard, raising  himself  half  up  from  his  seat; "  punish  her, but 
don't  do  her  any  harm.  You  say  you'll  kill  her,  —  that's 
only  a  hum  ;  I  am  very  fond  of  my  Chouette  ;  I  have 
only  lent  her  to  you,  and  you  must  give  her  back  again. 
Don't  spoil  her,  —  I  won't  have  my  Chouette  spoiled,  — 
if  you  do,  I'll  go  and  fetch  pa !  " 

"  Be  quiet,  and  she  shall  only  have  what  she  deserves, 
a  profitable  lesson,"  said  the  Schoolmaster,  in  order  to 
assure  Tortillard,  and  for  fear  the  cripple  should  go  and 
fetch  assistance. 

"  All  right !  Bravo  !  Now  the  play's  going  to  begin  !  " 
said  Bras-Rouge's  son,  who  did  not  seriously  believe  that 
the  Schoolmaster  intended  to  kill  the  Chouette. 

"  Let  us  discourse  a  little,  Chouette,"  continued  the 
Schoolmaster,  in  a  calm  voice.  "  In  the  first  place,  you 
see,  since  that  dream  at  the  Bouqueval  farm,  which 
brought  all  my  crimes  before  my  eyes,  since  that 
dream,  which  did  all  but  drive  me  mad,  —  which  will 
drive  me  mad,  for,  in  my  solitude,  in  the  deep  isola- 
tion in  which  I  live,  all  my  thoughts  dwell  on  this 
dream,  in  spite  of  myself,  —  a  strange  change  has  come 
over  me  ;  yes,  I  have  a  horror  of  my  past  ferocity.  In 
the  first  place,  I  would  not  allow  you  to  make  a  martyr 
of  La  Goualeuse,  though  that  was  nothing.  Chaining 
me  here  in  the  cellar,  making  me  suffer  from  cold  and 
hunger,  and  detaining  me  for  your  wicked  suggestions, 
you  have  left  me  to  all  the  fear  of  my  own  reflections. 
Oh,  you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  left  alone,  —  always 
alone,  —  with  a  dark  veil  over  your  eyes,  as  the  pitiless 
man  said  who  punished  me.  Oh,  it  is  horrid !  It  was 
in  this  very  cavern  that  I  flung  him,  in  order  to  kill  him  ; 
and  this  cavern  is  the  place  of  my  punishment,  it  may 
be  my  grave.  I  repeat  that  this  is  horrid  !  All  that 
that  man  predicted  to  me  has  come  to  pass ;  he  said  to 
329 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


me, '  You  have  abused  your  strength,  —  you  will  be  the 
plaything,  the  sport  of  the  most  weak.'  And  it  has 
been  so.  He  said  to  me, 4  Henceforward  separated  from 
the  exterior  world,  face  to  face  with  the  eternal  remem- 
brance of  your  crimes,  one  day  you  will  repent  those 
crimes.'  And  that  day  has  come ;  the  loneliness  has 
purified  me ;  I  could  not  have  believed  it  possible. 
Another  proof  that  I  am  perhaps  less  wicked  than 
formerly,  is  that  I  feel  inexpressible  joy  in  holding 
you  here,  monster !  Not  to  avenge  myself,  but  to 
avenge  your  victims, — yes,  I  shall  have  accomplished  a 
duty  when,  with  my  own  hands,  I  shall  have  pun- 
ished my  accomplice.  A  voice  says  to  me,  that,  if 
you  had  fallen  into  my  power  earlier,  much  blood,  much 
blood  would  have  been  spared.  I  have  now  a  horror  of 
my  past  murders ;  and  yet,  is  it  not  strange  ?  It  is  with- 
out fear,  it  is  even  with  security,  that  I  am  now  about  to 
perpetrate  on  you  a  fearful  murder,  with  most  fearful 
refinements.    Say,  say!    Do  you  understand  that ?" 

"  Bravo  !  Well  played,  old  No-Eyes  !  He  gets  on," 
exclaimed  Tortillard,  applauding.  "  It  is  really  some- 
thing to  laugh  at." 

"  To  laugh  at  ? "  continued  the  Schoolmaster,  in  a 
hollow  voice.  "  Keep  still,  Chouette  ;  I  must  complete 
my  explanation  as  to  how  I  gradually  came  to  repent- 
ance. This  revelation  will  be  hateful  to  you,  heart  of 
stone,  and  will  prove  to  you  also  how  remorseless 
I  ought  to  be  in  the  vengeance  which  I  should  wreak  on 
you  in  the  name  of  our  victims.  I  must  be  quick.  My 
delight  at  grasping  you  thus  makes  my  blood  throb  in 
my  veins,  —  my  temples  beat  with  violence,  just  as  when, 
by  thinking  of  my  dream,  my  reason  wanders.  Perhaps 
one  of  my  crises  will  come  on  ;  but  I  shall  have  time 
to  make  the  approaches  of  death  frightful  to  you  by 
compelling  you  to  hear  me." 

"  At  him,  Chouette  !  "  cried  Tortillard.  "  At  him  ! 
And  reply  boldly !  Why,  you  don't  know  your  part. 
330 


THE  CHOUETTE. 


Tell  the  *  old  one '  to  prompt  you,  my  worthy  elderly 
damsel." 

"  It  is  useless  for  you  to  struggle  and  bite  me,"  said 
the  Schoolmaster,  after  another  pause.  "  You  shall  not 
escape  me,  —  you  have  bitten  my  fingers  to  the  bone ; 
but  I  will  pull  your  tongue  out,  if  you  stir.  Let  us  con- 
tinue our  discourse.  When  I  have  been  alone  —  alone 
in  the  night  and  silence  —  I  have  begun  to  experience 
fits  of  furious,  impotent  rage ;  and,  for  the  first  time, 
my  senses  wandered.  Oh !  though  I  was  awake,  I 
again  dreamed  the  dream  —  you  know  —  the  dream. 
The  little  old  man  in  the  Rue  du  Roule,  the  drowned 
woman,  the  cattle-dealer,  and  you  —  soaring  over  these 
phantoms !  I  tell  you  it  was  horrible !  I  am  blind, 
and  my  thoughts  assume  a  form,  a  body,  in  order  to 
represent  to  me  incessantly,  and  in  a  visible,  palpable 
manner,  the  features  of  my  victims.  I  should  not  have 
dreamed  this  fearful  vision,  had  not  my  mind,  contin- 
ually absorbed  by  the  remembrance  of  my  past  crimes, 
been  troubled  with  the  same  fantasies.  Unquestionably, 
when  one  is  deprived  of  sight,  the  ideas  that  beset  us 
form  themselves  into  images  in  the  brain.  Yet  some- 
times, by  dint  of  viewing  them  with  resigned  terror,  it 
would  appear  that  these  menacing  spectres  have  pity  on 
me,  —  they  grow  dim  —  fade  away  —  vanish.  Then  I 
feel  myself  awakened  from  my  horrid  dream,  but  so 
weak  —  cast  down  —  prostrated  —  that  —  would  you 
believe  it  ?  ah,  how  you  will  laugh,  Chouette !  —  that 
I  weep  !  Do  you  hear  ?  I  weep  !  You  don't  laugh  ? 
Laugh !  Laugh !  Laugh,  I  say !  " 

The  Chouette  gave  a  dull  and  stifled  groan. 

"  Louder,"  said  Tortillard  ;  "  can't  hear." 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  Schoolmaster,  "  I  weep,  for  I 
suffer  and  rage  in  vain.  I  say  to  myself,  '  To-morrow, 
next  day,  for  ever,  I  shall  be  a  prey  to  the  same  attacks 
of  delirium  and  gloomy  desolation.'  What  a  life  !  Oh, 
what  a  life  !  And  I  would  not  choose  death  rather 
331 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


than  be  buried  alive  in  this  abyss  which  incessantly 
pervades  my  thoughts  !  Blind,  alone,  and  a  prisoner,  — - 
what  can  relieve  me  from  my  remorse  ?  Nothing,  noth- 
ing !  When  the  fantasies  disappear  for  a  moment, 
and  do  not  pass  and  repass  the  black  veil  constantly 
before  my  eyes,  there  are  other  tortures,  —  other  over- 
whelming reflections.  I  say  to  myself,  '  If  I  had 
remained  an  honest  man,  I  should  be  at  this  moment 
free,  tranquil,  happy,  beloved,  and  honoured  by  my  con- 
nections, instead  of  being  blind  and  chained  in  this 
dungeon  at  the  mercy  of  my  accomplices.'  Alas !  the 
regret  of  happiness  lost  from  crime  is  the  first  step 
towards  repentance ;  and  when  to  repentance  is  joined 
an  expiation  of  fearful  severity,  —  an  expiation  which 
changes  life  into  a  long,  sleepless  night,  filled  with 
avenging  hallucinations  or  despairing  reflections,  —  per- 
haps then  man's  pardon  succeeds  to  remorse  and  expia- 
tion." 

"I  say,  old  chap,"  exclaimed  Tortillard,  "you  are 
borrowing  a  bit  from  M.  Moissard's  part !  Come,  no 
cribbing  —  gammon  !  " 

The  Schoolmaster  did  not  hear  Bras-Rouge's  son. 

"  You  are  astonished  to  hear  me  speak  thus,  Chouette  ? 
If  I  had  continued  to  imbrue  myself  either  in  bloody 
crimes  or  the  fierce  drunkenness  of  the  life  of  the  gal- 
leys, this  salutary  change  would  never  have  come  over 
me  I  know  full  well.  But  alone,  blind,  stung  with 
remorse,  which  eats  into  me,  of  what  else  could  I  think  ? 
Of  new  crimes,  —  how  to  commit  them  ?  Escape,  — 
how  to  escape  ?  And,  if  I  escaped,  whither  should  I 
go  ?  What  should  I  do  with  my  liberty  ?  No  ;  I  must 
henceforth  live  in  eternal  night,  between  the  anguish  of 
repentance  and  the  fear  of  formidable  apparitions  which 
pursue  me.  "Sometimes,  however,  a  faint  ray  of  hope 
comes  to  lighten  the  depth  of  my  darkness,  a  moment  of 
calm  succeeds  to  my  torments,  —  yes,  for  sometimes  I 
am  able  to  drive  away  the  spectres  which  beset  me  by 
332 


THE  CHOUETTE. 


opposing  to  them  the  recollections  of  an  honest  and 
peaceable  past,  by  ascending  in  thought  to  my  youthful 
days,  to  my  hours  of  infancy.  Happily,  the  greatest 
wretches  have,  at  least,  some  years  of  peace  and  inno- 
cence to  oppose  to  their  criminal  and  blood-stained 
years.  None  are  born  wicked ;  the  most  infamous  have 
had  the  lovely  candour  of  infancy,  —  have  tasted  the 
sweet  joys  of  that  delightful  age.  And  thus,  I  again 
say,  I  sometimes  find  a  bitter  consolation  in  saying  to 
myself,  '  I  am,  at  this  hour,  doomed  to  universal  execra- 
tion, but  there  was  a  time  when  I  was  beloved,  protected, 
because  I  was  inoffensive  and  good.  Alas !  I  must, 
indeed,  take  refuge  in  the  past,  when  I  can,  for  it  is 
there  only  that  I  can  find  calm.'  " 

As  he  uttered  these  last  words,  the  tones  of  the 
Schoolmaster  lost  their  harshness ;  this  man  of  iron 
appeared  deeply  moved,  and  he  added : 

"  But  now  the  salutary  influence  of  these  thoughts  is 
such  that  my  fury  is  appeased ;  courage,  power  will  fail 
me  to  punish  you.  No,  it  is  not  I  who  will  shed  your 
blood." 

"  Well  said,  old  buck  !  So,  you  see,  Chouette,  it  was 
only  a  lark,"  cried  Tortillard,  applauding. 

"  No,  it  is  not  I  who  will  shed  your  blood,"  continued 
the  Schoolmaster ;  "  it  would  be  a  murder,  excusable 
perhaps,  but  still  a  murder ;  and  I  have  enough  with 
three  spectres  ;  and  then  —  who  knows  ?  —  perhaps  one 
day  you  will  repent  also  ?  " 

And,  as  he  spake  thus,  the  Schoolmaster  had  mechani- 
cally given  the  Chouette  some  liberty  of  movement. 
She  took  advantage  of  it  to  seize  the  stiletto  which  she 
had  thrust  into  her  stays  after  Sarah's  murder,  and 
aimed  a  violent  blow  with  this  weapon  at  the  ruffian,  in 
order  to  disengage  herself  from  him.  He  uttered  a  cry 
of  extreme  pain. 

The  ferocity  of  his  hatred,  his  vengeance,  his  rage, 
his  bloody  instincts,  suddenly  aroused  and  exasperated 
333 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


by  this  attack,  now  all  burst  forth  suddenly,  terribly, 
and  carried  with  it  his  reason,  already  so  steongly  shaken 
by  so  many  shocks. 

"  Ah,  viper,  I  feel  your  teeth  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a 
voice  that  shook  with  passion,  and  seizing,  with  all  his 
might,  the  Chouette,  who  had  thought  thus  to  escape 
him.  "  You  are  in  this  dungeon,  then  ? "  he  added, 
with  an  air  of  madness.  "  But  I  will  crush  the  viper 
or  screech-owl.  No  doubt  you  were  waiting  for  the 
coming  of  the  phantoms.  Yes ;  for  the  blood  beats  in 
my  temples,  —  my  ears  ring,  —  my  head  turns  —  as 
when  they  are  about  to  appear !  Yes ;  I  was  not 
deceived ;  here  they  are,  —  they  advance  from  the 
depths  of  darkness,  —  they  advance  !  How  pale  they 
are ;  and  their  blood,  how  it  flows,  —  red  and  smoking ! 
It  frightens  you,  —  you  struggle.  Well,  be  still,  you 
shall  not  see  the  phantoms,  —  no,  you  shall  not  see 
them.  I  have  pity  on  you ;  I  will  make  you  blind. 
You  shall  be,  like  me,  —  eyeless  !  " 

Here  the  Schoolmaster  paused.  The  Chouette  uttered 
a  cry  so  horrible  that  Tortillard,  alarmed,  bounded  off 
the  step,  and  stood  up.  The  horrid  shrieks  of  the 
Chouette  served  to  place  the  copestone  on  the  fury  of 
the  Schoolmaster. 

"  Sing,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  sing,  Chouette, — 
night-bird  !  Sing  your  song  of  death  !  You  are  happy  ; 
you  do  not  see  three  phantoms  of  those  we  have  assassi- 
nated,—  the  little  old  man  in  the  Rue  du  Roule,  the 
drowned  woman,  the  cattle-dealer.  I  see  them ;  they 
approach ;  they  touch  me.  Ah,  so  cold,  —  so  cold  ! 
Ah ! " 

The  last  gleam  of  sense  of  this  unhappy  wretch  was 
lost  in  this  cry  of  condemnation.  He  could  no  longer 
reason,  but  acted  and  roared  like  a  wild  beast,  and  only 
obeyed  the  savage  instinct  of  destruction  for  destruc- 
tion. A  hurried  trampling  was  now  heard,  interrupted 
frequently  at  intervals  with  a  heavy  sound,  which  ap- 
334 


THE  CHOUETTE. 


peared  like  a  box  of  bones  bounding  against  a  stone, 
upon  which  it  was  intended  to  be  broken.  Sharp, 
convulsive  shrieks,  and  a  burst  of  hellish  laughter 
accompanied  each  of  these  blows.  Then  there  was 
a  gasp  of  agony.    Then  — nothing. 

Suddenly  a  distant  noise  of  steps  and  voices  reached 
the  depths  of  the  subterranean  vault.  Tortillard,  frozen 
with  terror  by  the  fearful  scene  at  which  he  had  been 
present  without  seeing  it,  perceived  several  persons  hold- 
ing lights,  who  descended  the  staircase  rapidly.  In  a 
moment  the  cave  was  full  of  agents  of  safety,  led  by 
Narcisse  Borel.  The  Municipal  Guards  followed.  Tor- 
tillard was  seized  on  the  first  steps  of  the  cellar,  with 
the  Chouette's  basket  still  in  his  hand. 

Narcisse  Borel,  with  some  of  his  men,  descended  into 
the  Schoolmaster's  cavern.  They  all  paused,  struck  by 
the  appalling  sight.  Chained  by  the  leg  to  an  enormous 
stone  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  cave,  the  Schoolmaster, 
with  his  hair  on  end,  his  long  beard,  foaming  mouth, 
was  moving  like  a  wild  beast  about  his  den,  drawing  after 
him  by  the  two  legs  the  dead  carcase  of  the  Chouette, 
whose  head  was  horribly  fractured.  It  required  desper- 
ate exertions  to  snatch  her  from  his  grasp  and  manacle 
him.  After  a  determined  resistance  they  at  length  con- 
veyed him  into  the  low  parlour  of  the  cabaret,  a  large 
dark  room,  lighted  by  a  solitary  window.  There,  hand- 
cuffed and  guarded,  were  Barbillon,  Nicholas  Martial,  his 
mother  and  sister.  They  had  been  apprehended  at  the 
very  moment  when  laying  violent  hands  on  the  jewel- 
matcher  to  cut  her  throat.  She  was  recovering  her- 
self in  another  room.  Stretched  on  the  ground,  and 
hardly  restrained  by  two  men,  the  Schoolmaster,  slightly 
wounded,  but  quite  deranged,  was  roaring  like  a  wild  bull. 

Barbillon,  with  his  head  hanging  down,  his  face 
ghastly,  lead-coloured,  his  lips  colourless,  eye  fixed 
and  savage,  his  long  and  straight  hair  falling  on 
the  collar  of  his  blouse,  torn  in  the  struggle,  was 
335 


THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS. 


seated  on  a  bench,  his  wrists,  enclosed  in  handcuffs, 
resting  on  his  knees.  The  juvenile  appearance  of  this 
fellow  (he  was  scarcely  eighteen  years  of  age),  the  reg- 
ularity of  his  beardless  features,  already  emaciated  and 
withered,  were  rendered  still  more  deplorable  by  the 
hideous  stamp  which  debauchery  and  crime  had  im- 
printed on  his  physiognomy.  Impassive,  he  did  not 
say  a  word.  It  could  not  be  determined  whether  this 
apparent  insensibility  was  owing  to  stupor  or  to  a  calm 
energy ;  his  breathing  was  rapid,  and,  at  times,  he  wiped 
away  the  perspiration  from  his  pale  brow  with  his 
fettered  hands. 

By  his  side  was  Calabash,  whose  cap  had  been  torn 
off,  and  her  yellowish  hair,  tied  behind  with  a  piece  of 
tape,  hung  down  in  several  scanty  and  tangled  meshes. 
More  savage  than  subdued,  her  thin  and  bilious  cheeks 
were  somewhat  suffused,  as  she  looked  disdainfully  at 
her  brother,  Nicholas,  who  was  in  a  chair  in  front  of  her. 
Anticipating  the  fate  that  awaited  him,  this  scoundrel 
was  dejected.  With  drooping  head  and  trembling  knees 
he  was  overcome  with  fright;  his  teeth  chattered  con- 
vulsively, and  he  heaved  heavy  groans. 

The  Mother  Martial,  the  only  one  unmoved,  exhibited 
every  proof  that  she  had  lost  nothing  of  her  accustomed 
audacity.  With  head  erect,  she  looked  unshrinkingly 
around  her.  However,  at  the  sight  of  Bras-Rouge,- — 
whom  they  brought  into  the  low  room,  after  having 
made  him  accompany  the  commissary  and  his  clerk  in 
the  minute  search  they  had  made  all  over  the  place,  — 
the  widow's  features  contracted,  in  spite  of  herself,  and 
her  small  and  usually  dull  eyes  lighted  up  like  those 
of  an  infuriated  viper ;  her  pinched-up  lips  became 
livid,  and  she  twisted  her  manacled  arms.  Then,  as  if 
sorry  she  had  made  this  mute  display  of  impotent  rage, 
she  subdued  her  emotion,  and  became  cold  and  calm 
again. 

Whilst  the  commissary  and  his  clerk  were  writing 

336 


THE  CHOUETTE. 


their  depositions,  Narcisse  Borel,  rubbing  his  hands,  cast 
a  satisfied  look  on  the  important  capture  he  had  made, 
and  which  freed  Paris  from  a  band  of  dangerous  crimi- 
nals ;  but,  confessing  to  himself  how  useful  Bras-Rouge 
had  really  been  in  the  affair,  he  could  not  help  casting 
on  him  an  expressive  and  grateful  look. 

Tortillard's  father  was  to  share  until  after  trial 
the  confinement  and  lot  of  those  he  had  informed 
against,  and,  like  them,  he  was  handcuffed;  and  even 
more  than  them  did  he  assume  a  trembling  air  of  con- 
sternation, twisting  his  weasel's  features  with  all  his 
might,  in  order  to  give  them  a  despairing  expression, 
and  heaving  tremendous  sighs.  He  embraced  Tortil- 
lard,  as  if  he  should  find  some  consolation  in  his  pa- 
ternal caresses. 

The  little  cripple  did  not  seem  much  moved  by  these 
marks  of  tenderness;  he  had  just  learned  that,  for  a 
time,  he  would  be  moved  off  to  the  prison  for  young 
offenders. 

"  What  a  misery  to  have  a  dear  child ! "  cried  Bras- 
Rouge,  pretending  to  be  greatly  affected.  "  It  is  we 
two  who  are  most  unfortunate,  madame,  for  we  shall  be 
separated  from  our  children." 

The  widow  could  no  longer  preserve  her  calmness ; 
and  having  no  doubt  of  Bras-Rouge's  treachery,  which 
she  had  foretold,  she  exclaimed : 

"  I  was  sure  it  was  you  who  had  sold  my  son  at 
Toulon.  There,  Judas ! "  and  she  spat  in  his  face. 
"You  sell  our  heads!  Well,  they  shall  see  the  right 
sort  of  deaths,  —  deaths  of  true  Martials !  " 

"  Yes ;  we  shan't  shrink  before  the  carline  (guillo- 
tine)," added  Calabash,  with  savage  excitement. 

The  widow,  glancing  towards  Nicholas,  said  to  her 
daughter,  with  an  air  of  unutterable  contempt: 

"  That  coward  there  will  dishonour  us  on  the  scaf- 
fold!" 

Some  minutes  afterwards  the  widow  and  Calabash, 


THE  MYSTERIES  OP  PARIS. 

accompanied  by  two  policemen,  got  into  a  hackney- 
coach  to  go  to  St.  Lazare;  Barbillon,*-  Nicholas,  and 
Bras  Rouge  were  conveyed  to  La  Force,  whilst  the 
Schoolmaster  was  conveyed  to  the  Conciergerie,  where 
there  are  cells  for  the  reception  of  lunatics. 


END  OP  VOLUME  IV. 


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